


chasing echoes

by iv (iv_kapelput), iv_kapelput



Series: your love was handmade for somebody like me [1]
Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, KH AU, Kingdom Hearts AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19281013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iv_kapelput/pseuds/iv, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iv_kapelput/pseuds/iv_kapelput
Summary: in a world where human hearts sometimes take their own forms, many people one day wake up with a strange yearning. charlie is one of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ya (nb, agender, not at all a) girl is back on their pinnguin bullshit!! after a year of struggling with depression caused by a certain tumblr weirdo... i present the very first chapter of my kh-inspired au. i'm gonna write it one chapter at a time. this one is not explicit at all - but trust me, they're gonna bang.

Since the day Charlie became whole again - something was pulling her in direction of Gotham.

It was a persistent pull, one that couldn't be ignored; it was underneath her every thought and every action. Gentle - but ever present.

Sometimes - when she was half asleep and half awake, her consciousness barely there, her thoughts hazy and flimsy - a faint, distant memory would come to her, one that didn't belong to her.

A crowded room; a man; a spark in his eye.

"Where are you from?"

"Nowhere. You?"

"Officially - Southend. Actually - Gotham."

The man smiles; and the memory cuts off just before she remembers his face, or name, or what happened next.

Every time that flashback occurred - the pull became stronger, almost unbearably so, almost forcing her to get up and start packing and give in completely. Most of the time she resisted, unsure of what else could she do, of what could possibly be responsible for that feeling - one day, however, the pull had crept up on her.

It was gone for a few days, and she began to set in slowly, to enjoy its hollow absence; and then it reappeared, stronger than ever.

Gotham. Gotham. Gotham.

"Fuck it." she said shakily, getting up and looking around. "Let's go."

(She heard many stories about those impulses; about longing coming from impossible memories.)

“Let’s go.” she repeated slowly, sitting back down on her couch.

She hid her face in her hands and cried, cried in her empty, dark apartment in Metropolis; and there was no one around to embrace her, to soothe her pain.

***

Charlie’s life wasn’t always like that - it used to not be empty and dark, and there used to not be any mysterious pull deep inside her, forcing her in direction of the world’s darkest kingdom of thieves.

It used to be bright, and full of love; all until she fell in love with a wrong man.

(How cliche that sounded; she almost twisted herself into a knot while stuttering it out in therapy. “ _I loved a wrong man, miss Leland. He used me, he broke me, he discarded me… And I interrupted his vanishing act.”_

“ _Interrupted? How so?”_

“ _There was an ice-pick involved. And then I split.”_ )

His name was Harry; his name was Harry and he had dark, curled hair, wore glasses and was awkward and polite and sweet and charming. He didn’t sweep her off her feet, and he didn’t catch her attention with a witty line; he stumbled into her life, spilling a strawberry smoothie all over them both. It seemed clumsy, and genuine; and only months later she had learned it was actually calculated and planned.

(And that he hated strawberries.)

“I’m sorry!” he said, apologetically, earnestly, pleadingly. “My god, am I clumsy today. What a _mess_.”

“Don’t worry.” she replied; he looked up and smiled at her and she smiled back; and that was the beginning of an end.

(“ _What happened next?”_

“ _Think of the fluffiest, most cliche romance you’ve ever read and watched. Coffee dates. Fireworks. Ice-skating. Cotton candy. It was all cliche, and perfect, and I ate it up, because I was inexperienced and naive.”_

“ _Was he your first romantic partner?”_

“ _First? No. But he was the first serious one.”_ )

She fell in love with him, quickly and silently; it wasn’t a burning passion that kept her awake at night. It didn’t make her hands shake and her cheeks turn red. It was comforting and quiet and perfect.

( _“No relationship can be perfect. I should’ve seen that coming.”_

“ _When being conned and lied to, the victim is never to blame. It’s not them who lies and manipulates, after all.”_ )

The soft, quiet perfection of everything Harry said and did lead her astray; it obscured her vision with a pink fog of trust, of adoration, of love.

( _“You said you were inexperienced. Your vision wasn’t obscured - it simply wasn’t formed in the first place.”_ )

She loved him, and she trusted him; and depended on him, and needed him.

( _“When I say it like that… It almost sounds unhealthy.”_

“ _By itself, love is not unhealthy. Love isn’t a conscious being. How it affects us and what we do to it… Depends on us.”_

“ _I guess I was just so astounded by the fact someone loved me I let myself get lost in that feeling. It was like an adrenaline rush. Like being high. Like-”_

“ _Like being loved for the first time.”_

“ _This sounds a bit like my parents didn’t love me, doesn’t it?”_

“ _Not at all. Those are two different kinds of love. One can go through life loved to bits by their parents and unloved by any potential partner - and vice versa. Just because you didn’t have much luck in terms of romantic relationships doesn’t mean you were generally unloved.”_ )

He knew it all, he knew it well; and he used it, meticulously and with surgical precision.

(“ _He… Killed my parents, one by one. First my father, because he knew that if he killed my mother first… Dad would raise hell. He’d find out. He had people who’d find the truth for him.”_

“ _Your father… He was a politician, right?”_

“ _Yeah. But most of all… He was a kind, generous man. He had many friends. Friends who wouldn’t be able to see him suffer. He loved my mother a lot. You know how it’s actually very common for liberal men to cheat on their wives, or to abuse them, all while using their liberal policies as a camouflage?_

“ _It’s an unfortunate pattern of behavior.”_

“ _Well, he was nothing like that. Many people said their marriage must be strained, because my mother… Well… She was kind of uptight, and a total workaholic. So they basically never went to any parties together, or rallies, or interviews. But it wasn’t strained. She was a surgeon, and he understood that. They loved each other.”_

“ _Children of politicians often tend to blame their emotional shortcomings - or bad luck in relationships - on their parents.”_

“ _I’m aware. Dad always made sure I know I’m more than just “a politician’s daughter”. He always said it’s imperative that I become my own person and follow my own path. He never forced me to attend any events, or to keep up with people I didn’t have anything in common with, or to enjoy the courtship of one of his peers. He just… Wanted me to be happy. Except…”_

“ _Yes?”_

“ _Except no one ever really told me what does it mean to be happy. Or how to find happiness. How to keep it. And I know that everyone’s supposed to find their own happiness, but I guess… I always thought happiness is what my parents had.”_

“ _And what would that be?”_

“ _Each other.”_ )

Shortly after her father’s funeral Harry had made a fatal mistake - he overestimated the strength of her sleeping pills.

It was a simple, absolutely human mistake; after all - Harry was just a human, nothing more and nothing less.

(Which made his calculated, selfish cruelty feel almost inhuman, almost impossible.)

She woke up one night, feeling disoriented and dizzy and incomprehensibly hungry; possibly the result of - once again - not eating anything during the day.

(Ever since her mother’s funeral all food tasted like dust to her.)

Harry wasn’t in their bed; and she sighed, too sleepy to feel sad. Their relationship was never physical; but now - after the death of both her parents, after their funerals - she needed physical contact more than ever. She needed someone - someone she loved, someone she trusted - to be next to her, to feel someone’s heartbeat, for someone to hold her, to keep her from falling apart completely.

Yawning quietly, she shuffled through the apartment, towards the kitchen; scattered everywhere were her parents’ belongings. Their books, their clothes, their paperwork; everything she trashed around in her - more and more rare - fits of overpowering despair. She never had the energy to clean it up; and Harry never offered his help. She just assumed he’s letting her go through grief at her own pace; or that he’s as confused as she is, stumbling his way through every day.

“Crap.” she muttered, almost tripping over a forever orphaned evening gown. “Heh. Mom’s favorite.”

In a complete, dizzy silence she reached the dark kitchen. She ate a few slices of plain bread and drank a glass of strawberry milk; and she was on her way back to bed when she heard Harry’s voice coming from the nearby room.

It used to be a guest room; but then Harry moved in. Her parents didn’t mind; in fact - they seemed to be overjoyed by the fact he’s going to live with them.

(Her father said he’s charming. Her mother said he’s smart.)

She smiled faintly, resting her head against the door.

It took her a while for her brain to process and analyze what she was hearing.

“Of course she’s asleep. The pills I’ve been feeding her are strong enough to knock a horse out… And last time I checked she’s not a horse, even despite her teeth.”

A pause, as Charlie froze in place.

“Uh-uh. Ha, ha, very funny. Nah, I’ll be back soon… Hopefully. This place is giving me the creeps. Take care. Love you.”

A few moments later he opened the door; Charlie didn’t react in time and he bumped into her on his way out of the room.

“Oh. Hey there.” he said softly, with a gentle smile. “Can’t sleep?”

She stared at him without a word, thoughts racing through her head, her heart beating so fast she felt like it’s about to explode. Who was Harry talking to? What was he talking about? Was it even _him_ talking? Maybe he was watching a movie-

“Hello? Earth to Charlie?”

“Sorry.” she said quickly. “I’m just… A bit dizzy. I think I’ll go back to bed now.”

She turned around and left without waiting for him to say anything; she entered their - _her, they never slept in one bed -_ bedroom, closed the door and sat on the floor, with her back against the door and her face in her hands.

She felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over her on a hot day. Like someone slapped her in the middle of a casual, quiet conversation.

She didn’t sleep that night; she didn’t even try, as she knew she’s not going to fall asleep anyway. Her brain was too busy, piecing together small events and minor gestures, weaving together a terrifying, crystal clear array of a non-existent relationship. She looked at it, analyzed its every piece - and discarded it without giving it a second thought.

_Surely I’m just being paranoid. I’ll talk to doctor Mallory about it. Maybe it’s the meds? It’s probably just meds. Meds and not enough food._

( _“You thought you’re hallucinating?”_

“ _Yeah. Try to imagine yourself in my situation - would you take what you heard at face value?”_

“ _I’m not blaming you for anything, Charlie. It wasn’t your fault.”_

“ _Oh, except it was. It was my fault. I brought him home. I introduced him to my parents.”_

“ _The only person who’s to blame for what happened… Is Harry.”_ )

The truth was there all along, even if she refused to see it. And that, after all, is the true tragedy of life - the truth of other people’s intentions is always out there. The truth exists regardless of being acknowledged or seen; the truth is absolute, amoral, cruel and cold.

How did Charlie learn the truth, the truth of a forged will, forged prescriptions, fake love confessions, a tragic car crash involving her father and sleeping pills slipped into her mother’s evening cup of black tea?

She couldn’t remember.

(“ _That’s actually very common among victims of such traumas. Repression is our brain’s way of dealing with the extreme.”_

“ _How is that a way? And why did my brain just… Forget about that?”_

“ _It didn’t forget about it. It simply moved it away from your conscience, so it’s not in the way. it’s understandable. It’s not exactly the healthiest coping mechanism of them all - but probably the most common one.”_

“ _This… Doesn’t make it feel better. The fact that memory is there, somewhere, just out of reach… I can’t stand it.”_

“ _And it’s understandable. We’ll get to it, Charlie.”_ )

There was a huge, gaping hole in her memories; it was jarring and blurry and so, so frustrating. What was in it? An overheard phone call? A note? A diary? Or perhaps a confession?

She didn’t know, and it drove her crazy; and not even once she had considered that maybe, just maybe - ignorance is bliss. Her mind had hidden that particular memory at the bottom of the darkest, dustiest, most inaccessible drawer; but for some reason - it kept the memory that followed in plain view, for her to come back to, for her to suffer over.

“I killed him.” Charlie choked out, hiding her face in her hands. “I… I killed Harry.”

“It was an extreme situation.” her therapist said softly. “It was… A merciless one. One that not many people find themselves in. We do not plan in such situations. When - _if -_ we find ourselves in such scenario… Our instincts take over. Self defense can be a cruel martial art.”

“But I don’t even _know_ if it was in self-defense.” Charlie replied quietly. “Maybe I just… Attacked him out of blue. I don’t know that.”

“Is that when you-”

“When I split? Yes. I’ve killed him… And then I split. And I have no clue what did my Splinter do.”

“And do you remember what your Echo did?”

“Vaguely.” Charlie said with a sigh. “It’s very… Foggy.”

“That’s also typical. Only very few people remember what happened to them during their split.”

Charlie sighed again, not saying anything; and doctor Leland crossed her legs, watching her calmly from behind thick glasses.

It’s been a couple weeks since Charlie impulsively moved to Gotham from Metropolis. She bought a luxurious apartment near the legendary Wayne Tower, and furnished and decorated it; and none of it helped. She still felt empty, and confused, and alone; and the weird pull inside of her didn’t go away. If anything - it grew stronger, keeping her awake at night, making it impossible for her to focus on anything.

(At least it kept her busy, preventing her from falling apart once more.)

“What do you want?” she once asked out loud, in her quiet, empty, dark apartment. “I came to Gotham. What else do you want?”

“Find him.” a quiet voice inside her head replied, chilling her to the bone, halting her breath and freezing her heart.

(This too was not entirely unheard of; sometimes after even after merging back together the halves remained quietly separate. Sometimes one of them regained the faintest semblance of individuality.)

The voice didn’t return, even despite Charlie’s desperate please. The pull didn’t go away; and that was how Charlie met Joan Leland.

According to her neatly designed, minimalist website Joan Leland was a psychotherapist specializing in PTSD and post-split syndrome; and according to anonymous posts online - her waiting list was almost unbelievably short, since many people tended to avoid those associated with Arkham Asylum. The Asylum had dark reputation; but Charlie couldn’t care less. She only wanted for the pull to go away, to let her sleep, to let her live.

Their first few sessions were slow, as Leland always began with getting to know the patient and their problems; it allowed her to come up with an actual program. She took a lot of notes during the sessions; she had a separate notebook for her every patient. Bound in leather, made out of highest quality ruled paper - the notebook looked both intimidating and promising.

After one of the sessions the pull inside of Charlie suddenly got so strong she had lost her balance.

“Miss Charlie?” Leland, who had been leaving the room, asked. “Is something wrong?”

For a while - Charlie didn’t respond, too busy trying to stop the world from spinning before and around her, trying to not trip, trying to _understand_.

Suddenly - as suddenly as it appeared - the pulling had stopped; and when Charlie looked up, grasping the nearest door frame so tightly her knuckles her turned white - she saw a man.

He was only slightly taller than her; his head was small and his hair were dark and very thin. His shoulders were narrow, and his stomach and hips and legs were almost comically wide; he seemed to be in his fifties and his eyes looked like those of a basset hound.

He stared at her in complete silence, and she stared at him; and as she was about to open her mouth - the pull returned, for a split second. It was directionless, and shapeless, and it didn’t pull her anywhere; but it was inside of her, impatient and tense.

“I’m sorry.” Charlie said, looking at doctor Leland. “I’m… I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Leland asked, sounding and looking worried. “Miss Charlie, if you’re not feeling well you can simply sit in the waiting room, I can call for an ambulance-”

“I’m fine.” Charlie repeated quickly. “I… I lost my balance for a moment. And I think I forgot to eat breakfast today. And… Lunch.”

“Oh, miss Charlie.” Leland sighed. “Please, do take care of yourself. Good morning, Sal.” she added, looking at the man. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Take your time, Joan.” the man replied, taking his coat off and putting it on a hanger. “Would you be so kind as to make me a cup of tea, dear?”

“Of course, Sal.” Leland replied as Charlie slowly walked up to the door and past the man. He didn’t look at her, and Charlie tried to not stare; but her heart was pounding and her head felt empty.

She waited for the man on the street, hoping to talk to him after his therapy session is over - but he never left the building. One, two, three hours passed as she nervously paced back and forth, constantly glancing towards the entrance - eventually a security guard came out of the building to ask her if everything’s okay.

“I’m waiting for a friend.” Charlie replied quickly, shooting the man a forced smile, hoping he hadn’t noticed her hands were shaking. “I was waiting for someone, but I think I got stood up. Big time.”

The guard nodded; but he didn’t smile, still looking at her and his eyes were serious and piercing.

Charlie went home, where she spent rest of the afternoon curled up on her couch, staring blankly into space, trying to force herself to _remember_.

(The man looked at her blankly; he clearly didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t feel anything for him, but something _about him_ , perhaps his scent, or his clothes, made her heart almost explode, made the pull feel almost like an explosion, pulling her in every direction at once.)

“Who are you?” Charlie whispered to herself; she put a hand over her heart and closed her eyes. “What do you want? _Who_ do you want?”

But her heart - stupid, naive, lonely heart - didn’t respond; and Charlie fell asleep on the couch, wishing she could split herself into halves once more.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a wild search for answers begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one took me forever to write lmao. writer's block and executive dysfunction sure as hell are a pain.  
> CONTENT WARNING: IN THIS CHAPTER CHARLIE GETS MUGGED AND THE MUGGER SUGGESTS HE MIGHT ASSAULT HER SEXUALLY.  
> nothing of this sort actually happens, but i still thought it's only fair to put a warning.

_They’re in a crowded bar._

_Charlie’s not herself. There’s a lot of her missing; she can constantly feel all of her emotions flowing through her, burning, screaming, begging to be expressed._

_She ignores them, and instead focuses on the person at the other side of the table._

_“Where are you from?”_

_“Nowhere. You?”_

_“Officially - Southend. Actually - Gotham.”_

_The man smiles, and looks her in the eye; his eyes are tired and piercing and grey._

The memory cuts off.

 _One more try_ , she tells herself, closing her eyes and curling up in bed. _Once more_.

_They’re in a crowded bar._

_Charlie’s not herself. There’s a lot of her missing; she can constantly feel all of her emotions flowing through her, burning, screaming, begging to be expressed._

_She ignores them, and instead focuses on the person at the other side of the table._

_The man is from Gotham. His eyes are grey and tired. She can remember his words, but not his voice._

_She doesn’t remember his name._

_She remembers his hands; a bit rough. Long, slender fingers; hands of an artist. But his skin is rough, and there are scars on his fingers._

The memory cuts off; the cutoff point is merciless and sharp and painful, like a knife in her stomach.

“Why can’t I remember?” she asks herself, tears of frustration dripping down her face. “I want to know! I just _want to know_!”

The memory doesn’t return for the next week; and then it cuts off again.

***

“Thank you, doctor Leland.” Charlie sighed, gathering her things scattered across the coffee table. “See you next Friday.”

“Take care, miss Charlie.” Leland replied, closing her notebook. “I will pass your request to my colleagues. I’d rather not make any promises, but… I’ll see what I can do.”

(During this session, Charlie mostly complained about being unable to remember anything from her split period; and about the fleeting, tantalizing bit that’d come back to her every now and then. Leland suggested group therapy for people with the same problem; Charlie said she already looked into the topic and that there were no free spots. Leland said she’ll try to squeeze her into her colleague’s therapy group; and in response Charlie smiled and nodded, already recognizing a blank promise leading nowhere.)

“I appreciate it.” Charlie replied, standing with her hand on the doorknob; suddenly an idea came to her - most likely a rather pointless one. “Actually, doctor Leland…” she said hesitantly, turning around. “Can I… Ask you something?”

“Of course.” Leland replied, looking at Charlie from behind her glasses. “What’s on your mind?”

“Some time ago I… Saw a man here.” Charlie said cautiously. “Do you remember? He’s… I think he’s much older than me. Around the same height. I think you called him Sal.”

“What about him?” Leland asked quickly, watching Charlie like a hawk.

“He made me feel the pull.” Charlie said quietly. “You know. The one that made me move here. I felt a pull, but he… I don’t think he _knows_ me. I don’t think we’ve ever met. And I was hoping you could tell me his name, so I can… So I can maybe get some answers.”

Silence, only interrupted by the ticking clock, fell.

“Miss Charlie, you know I can’t do this.” Leland said finally, looking away. “Mister M… _Sal_ is my patient. I can’t give his contact information - to _anyone_.” she added; she sounded nervous, almost afraid. “Please, don’t ask me about this again.”

“Of course, doctor Leland.” Charlie said softly. “Have a good day.”

Leland didn’t respond; and Charlie left the room, already searching for her phone in her bag. As soon as she fished it out she went online - and googled _sal m gotham_.

“Hm.” she muttered to herself, looking at the results. “An ad for _Sal’s Mozzarella Corner_ , something about salmonella and salami… Useless.” she sighed quietly; she was about to turn her phone off when she caught a glimpse of the search result at the bottom of the page.

_**Sal Maroni and his shady SHADY friends...Gotham… Sal M**aroni_

“Huh.” she breathed out, tapping the link impatiently; and in that exact moment - her phone’s battery had died.

“ _FUCK_.” Charlie muttered through gritted teeth. “ _Fucking garbage piece of dog-_ ”

“Do you need help, miss?” someone asked her; when she looked up from her phone - she saw a security guard. The plaque on his chest said his name is Bill; he was very tall, lanky and bald. He shot her an apologetic grin; and she smiled back, even though she was still very much pissed off.

“My phone died.” she explained, rolling her eyes. “Serves me right for being an absolute disaster, I guess.”

He laughed; way louder than her barely-even-a-joking remark deserved.

“Life is just a constant streak of punishments for being forgetful.” he said; his wide grin was slowly getting just a bit unsettling. 

“Yeah.” Charlie agreed, taking a step back. “Have a good day, Bill.”

“Hold up, miss.” he said just as she was about to turn around and walk away. “Your phone is dead. Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“No, that won’t be needed. I live a short walk from here… And I know the way home. Thank you for asking though.” she said, doing her best to not sound impatient.

“Alright.” he said, sounding almost… Disappointed? That was odd. “By the way… Did your friend make it eventually?”

“What?” Charlie asked immediately.

“Your friend.” Bill repeated. “Last time we met you said you’re waiting for a friend and you think they stood you up. Did they make it?”

Charlie blinked slowly, trying to remember that conversation.

For all she cared, she saw and talked to Bill for the first time ever; and she _definitely_ didn’t remember waiting for any friend. In whole Gotham she knew less than ten people; in whole Gotham she didn’t have a single friend.

(Actually, the sentence should go _she didn’t have a single friend anywhere_ ; all her friendships kind of fell apart some time after her wedding.)

“Uh, sure.” Charlie said finally, deciding to go along. “She called me later that day and we went out for drinks. It was fun.” she added, turning around and walking out of the building.

She quickly glanced over her shoulder in Bill’s direction; the man was staring at her, with an indescribable expression that made her skin crawl.

“Jesus.” Charlie muttered to herself, walking away. “What. A. _Weirdo_.”

Luckily no one else tried to chat her up on her way home; except for the cashier at the deli she went to to buy some food. That was understandable though; it was Theo’s job to be nice to customers.

Finally - she made it home.

She threw her groceries into the fridge and impatiently plugged her phone in to charge; it was a bit battered, so it took it a long moment to turn back on. Then it decided to install a system update; and _then_ it decided to update every. Single. App.

Finally - the phone buzzed, informing her all the updates had been installed. Charlie sighed with relief and opened the internet browser; luckily the app saved the last session and opened the page about Sal Maroni’s shady friends without issue.

It was a mostly incomprehensible blog post, written with next to no punctuation and consisting entirely of run-on sentences with lots of seemingly random emphasis. 

The post - as well as rest of the blog - was junk; but it give Charlie something very important: a name. 

_Sal Maroni._

“Please, god.” Charlie muttered, typing _sal maroni gotham city_ into Google Images search bar. “Let this be easy.”

She sighed with relief seeing the results. The man in the pictures was the same man she saw at Leland’s clinic; which meant she could put aside her half-assed, desperate plan to maybe steal Leland’s calendar, or distract her secretary and take a look at the patient database. Absolutely everything about those plans could go wrong; starting with getting caught red-handed.

According to what she read online - Sal Maroni was a public person of sorts. He wasn’t a politician; and he never voiced his support for _any_ politician. He was rather reclusive, and seemed to be extremely selective regarding people he surrounded himself with; but he also had a reputation of a selfless philanthrope, a patron of art and a connoisseur of italian wines and french cheeses. All around he seemed like a decent man; but something didn’t quite make sense.

When asked about him, doctor Leland sounded uncharacteristically nervous; she was almost scared.

“Hm.” Charlie muttered to herself, returning to the original blog post. “Could the nutjob be onto something?”

( _everyone can be wicked and every heart can be rotten; and every pleasant smile can hide poison and knives_ )

According to the author of the blog, Maroni was friends with Gotham’s most notorious crime lord - Carmine Falcone. Falcone family had a reputation for being ruthless, power-hungry, ever present and seemingly indestructible; _much like cockroaches_ , the author of the blog wrote. Carmine himself, in particular, seemed to be a thorn in everyone’s side, his criminal empire spanning across all of Gotham - everyone knew about it, and yet nothing ever came out of it.

_and of COURSE no one ever did anything about it, how can we do something if falcones control everyone from the police to everyone in the da’s office and maroni knows it and pretends the issue isn’t there. the mask of a philanthrope sure as fuck is useful, but if he’s such a good guy then how comes he exclusively frequents places owned by falcone and even his auctions YES his AUCTIONS where he sells trinkets stolen from PEOPLE HE ruined and everyone knows falcone has to launder his money somewhere and i think we know what the answer is everyone knows maroni is a philanthropist but literally no one knows what does he do for a living and where did his money come from no one knows anyone to whom maroni donated follow the money people follow the donations and see who’s really behind this_

“Jesus.” Charlie groaned. “That’s a very stylish tinfoil hat you’re wearing, OP. Is it Dior?”

Naturally, there was no actual evidence of the presented claims; however Charlie couldn’t help feeling a bit disturbed by the fact that was the very last post on that blog. Before it the author posted at least once a week; and suddenly - radio silence. And to top it off - the post was about two years old. Surely many other sketchy things happened in Gotham during this time; surely something must’ve happened to fuel the author’s conspiracy theories.

Out of sheer curiosity Charlie googled _what happened to dirtborn_gothamdigger_

( _this sounds wrong. am i getting it right? oh, okay. their nickname really goes like that. huh._ )

The very first result was a YouTube video titled _dirtborn_gothamdigger disappearance SOLVED!!!!!!!!! 100% LEGIT NOT CLICKBAIT_ l the video was uploaded by _Sofia Falcone_.

_Hey everyone, welcome back to my channel. For those of you who’re new here - I’m the daughter of Carmine Falcone. This is where I document my life as the daughter of Gotham’s most notorious boogeyman. Stick with me ‘till the end - I’ll answer some questions from the last week! So, without any further ado… Let’s talk about dirtborn_gothamdigger. Everyone’s guilty pleasure. Admit it - you’ve read it too. Maybe your weird uncle shared it on Facebook. Maybe you found it through a listicle on the site that shall not be named, ever. Or maybe Alex Jones screamed about it… Again. You know what I’m talking about. That *bleep* blog. “Oh, Sofia, what’s your problem with that blog?” First of all - can you read? HAVE you read that blog? I was accused of secretly dating Bruce Wayne. That’s slander. It’s a CRIME. *a laugh track plays as Sofia looks into the distance, headlines of Gotham Gazette accusing her father of crimes of various magnitudes rapidly appear in the background* Anyway. For the past months I’ve been bombarded with questions regarding the blog author’s sudden apparent disappearance. Ever since they accused my father of using Salvatore Maroni - a person whom I’ve never seen in real life, by the way - as a laundromat… All hell broke loose in my inbox. And then a week had passed without a new gripping tale from them. And then a month. And seemingly everyone had decided that my father had this random internet weirdo assassinated for leaking his greatest secret… That secret being him allegedly being good pals with another middle aged rich man. Truly a groundbreaking theory. Here’s a thing though: my father… And don’t tell him I said it, or he might have ME assassinated… Is really bad with technology. WHAT’S A FACEBOOK level of bad. I don’t think he’s even aware that blog exists. I know I never brought it up - because why would I? We have so many better topics to talk about - like murder. And blackmail. And pasta. So - my father’s off the list. Who remains? Hm, let me see… Ah, yes, naturally. Absolutely every local celebrity. There’s me, there’s major Hill, there’s mister Maroni, Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent, mister Loeb, Alfred Pennyworth, Jonathan Crane, everyone working at Arkham, Killer Croc, the Ventriloquist… Though to be fair slandering the Ventriloquist isn’t exactly that bad of a thing. Oh! There’s also Batman. Of course, how could I forget about dirtborn’s best article: BRUCE WAYNE CONFIRMED AS BATMAN. The list of people who potentially could want dirtborn gone for exposing their dirty, filthy secrets is sooooo long. Because as we know, they always provided verifiable sources on their claims._

The video was about an hour long; and even though Sofia Falcone was very pretty and her voice was kind of hot Charlie decided to close the app. Sofia spoke of people and situations that meant nothing to Charlie; she didn’t know who Loeb is. She didn’t _care_ who Loeb is. All she cared about was Maroni; and Sofia Falcone’s YouTube channel clearly wasn’t going to be a good source of information.

“Hm.” Charlie muttered to herself, ignoring the comments section under the video, as well as every other video on Sofia’s channel. “Alright, mister Maroni. How do I get in touch with you?”

That seemed to be a question many people wanted to know an answer to.

According to his Wikipedia article, Salvatore Maroni hadn’t agreed to an interview in about two decades. His phone number was private and somehow was never leaked; people had theorized that his email address is _s.maroni@gmail.com_ or _salvatore.maroni@gmail.com_ since both of them seemed to be registered and none of them returned the _the email account that you tried to reach does not exist_ error; but seemingly no one had ever gotten any response at all.

His home address was an enigma too; Maroni seemed to be - rather surprisingly - good at throwing off and evading anyone tailing him; some people theorized he’s probably making use of at least two body doubles, backup cars or a network of old, underground tunnels said to run underneath whole Gotham - or all three of those things. People saw Maroni enter a restaurant, and they never saw him leave; but then, two hours later, someone else saw him in another part of town. 

Long story short Maroni was elusive and secretive; and it drove a small group of people mad, all while the majority of people in Gotham couldn’t care less. Maroni never reached out to anyone he donated money to, and he never actually _talked_ to any of the artists he sponsored; and most people didn’t seem to find it suspicious, or even odd. 

Charlie, on the other hand, found it both suspicious _and_ odd; but at the very least - some of the abandoned forum threads gave her names of places Maroni used to frequent. Naturally, some of those places were bound to no longer exist, since the threads had been dead for quite some time; but Charlie remembered expensive restaurants and shops back in Metropolis. Those kinds of places are always hard to destroy; so frequenting some of Maroni’s favorite places in hopes of one day bumping into him did sound like a plausible strategy. At the very least it sounded better than _stealing Leland’s books_ or _distracting the secretary to get her hands on the database_ or _hiring the world’s best private investigator_ ; even though the _private investigator_ strategy did sound tempting.

“Detective Chimp has to wait.” Charlie muttered, quickly writing down the list of places Maroni used to frequent on the nearest piece of paper. “I’m sure he’s gonna be fine without my money.”

(To be fair, the concept of reaching out to Chimp did make Charlie feel just a bit uneasy; there was something about that hyper-intelligent monkey in a deerstalker that made her skin crawl - and she wasn’t quite sure what was it.)

Curled up on the couch, Charlie began the process of investigating Maroni’s favorite spots.

To make the frantic googling feel at least a bit like an actual investigation she wrote the name of every place down on a separate sheet of paper, thus giving herself a possibility to actually take notes; the arranged notes covered the entire surface of her coffee table, and her hands were shaking, and her thoughts were racing. Absolutely none of the places sounded familiar; none of them made the pull return.

In a fit of desperation she started to look into the owners of every place on the list; and they all seemed to have exactly one thing in common.

Somehow - every single one of them was Italian. 

“...huh.” Charlie muttered. “Alright, so that’s… Kind of odd. Or maybe it isn’t? Maybe he’s just… Very supportive of Gotham’s Italian-Americans. Or maybe it’s because he _is_ in cahoots with Falcone, and Falcone is the _il padrino_ of every Italian-American business owner in Gotham. Or maybe he just really likes italian food?” she added, scratching her head in confusion. “Hm. Is it bad to assume every Italian-American business owner in Gotham has ties to the mafia? Or is it actually reasonable? Or maybe it’s all just smoke and mirrors? Am I crazy?” she asked suddenly, scratching her nose. “I’m talking to myself about mafia. Am I crazy?”

(The fact there was no one around to answer that felt both like a blessing and a burden.)

In confused silence Charlie wrote _possibly mafia, possibly has ties to Falcone_ next to everyone’s name.

Eventually - she reached a breakthrough.

One of the places she was looking into - a restaurant called _Nest -_ had been closed three years earlier; initially Charlie put it at the very end of her list, deciding that a non-existent restaurant whose owner had passed away six months after closing the door forever is not going to be a valuable lead, or _any_ lead at all. However - after looking into every other place and every other owner and writing down some basic notes - Charlie decided to investigate Nest as well.

According to the articles she found online, the restaurant was closed partially due to the owner’s quickly declining health and partially due to rapidly losing customers. There was never a quality drop in service and offered dishes - it was simply a matter of that particular part of Gotham becoming overridden by criminals and various other lowlifes. It wasn’t safe to visit that part of town after the dawn; and according to the last article she had opened - the source of that danger lied in the nearby park.

_**The Cobblepot Park** used to be the brightest spot on Gotham’s map_

Charlie gasped, clutching her phone so tightly it creaked quietly as she nearly crushed it with her shaking hands. 

_They’re in a crowded bar. Charlie’s not herself. There’s a lot of her missing; she can constantly feel all of her emotions flowing through her, burning, screaming, begging to be expressed. She ignores them, and instead focuses on the person at the other side of the table. “You can call me [she doesn’t remember his name]. Or… **Cobblepot**.” The man is from Gotham. His eyes are grey and tired. She can remember his words, but not his voice. _

_She doesn’t remember his name; but he tells her she can call him **Cobblepot**_ **.**

**__** _She remembers his hands; a bit rough. Long, slender fingers; hands of an artist. But his skin is rough, and there are scars on his fingers. The memory cuts off._

“Cobblepot.” Charlie said; her voice was shaky and excited. “Cobblepot.”

She enjoyed the sound of it; it sounded round. It sounded familiar. It sounded like home.

“Cobblepot.” she repeated, googling _cobblepot gotham_. “Cobblepot, Cobblepot, Cobblepot.”

Her hands were shaking so much she could barely even read the articles; and her head was such a mess she barely understood what she was reading.

According to what she found online - the Cobblepots used to be one of Gotham’s most important, influential families. Some called them one of the Gotham’s founding families - alongside the Waynes, the Crowes, the Kanes and the Elliots. The Cobblepot family was old; and they always went hand in hand with the Waynes. The two families were seemingly inseparable; socially, economically, politically.

Eventually though, everything fell apart.

Theodore Cobblepot committed suicide in the middle of the mayoral race; it left his supporters - and his family - utterly devastated. His sudden death prompted many questions; according to polls Theodore was going to win by a landslide, leaving his far more economically and socially conservative rival behind. Theodore had the vocal support of the young and the old, the rich and the poor; he was a charismatic speaker, a fantastic listener and a staunch believer in everyone’s right to exist.

(Very, very faintly Charlie could remember her father talking about Theodore. Crispin was also a politician; and he always liked to know a bit about everyone. _Good politics_ , Crispin said. _Fantastic program. Stellar campaign. I’d vote for him._ _Alas - good men die tragically, while their rivals win the election._ )

Some time after that, Theodore’s wife - Esther - had seemingly lost her mind; for her own good - and for the good of their child - Esther was locked away in the infamous Arkham Asylum, where she committed suicide a few years later.

Charlie’s heart was beating so hard it _hurt_ when she saw the picture of their child; the last Cobblepot alive. 

Shipped off to England after his mother’s final breakdown. 

He was just a kid back then, just a boy; his name was Oswald, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.

He was just a boy in the picture she found; his face was rather round. His hair were dark, and he was smiling; and his eyes were grey and bright, and there was a mischievous spark in them.

_The man smiles, and looks her in the eye; his eyes are tired and piercing and grey._

The boy in the picture was smiling; his eyes were bright and piercing and grey.

Charlie stared at the picture in silence, trying to imagine Oswald as an adult, trying to _remember_ him as an adult. 

She closed her eyes, trying to summon a new memory; but nothing came to her, not even a snippet, not even a flash.

“Fuck it.” she said, opening her eyes. “This can’t be it. I’m here for a _reason_.” she said, stuffing all of her notes into her purse. 

She ran out of her apartment; and returned thirty seconds later to put some shoes on and to take her phone and keys.

Luckily for her - there was a cab just outside the entrance to her building, parked on the sidewalk.

“Are you free?” she asked the driver, clutching her purse so tightly her knuckles turned completely white. 

“...yeah.” the driver replied hesitantly, looking at her cautiously. “I’m not waitin’ for anyone if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“Take me to the Cobblepot Park.” she said, already getting inside. 

“At this hour?” he asked, looking at her over his shoulder. “That place’s dangerous, yanno.”

“I don’t care.” she replied quickly, glancing at the setting sun. “Just take me there.”

“...sure.” he finally said. “So… Of all places in Gotham… Why the Cobblepot Park?”

“Can we _please_ just ditch this part of the ride?” she replied, impatiently tapping against the seat next to her with her fingertips. “I’m not in a chatty mood.”

“Jesus, alright, alright.” he muttered. “I’m just tryin’ to kill the silence.”

She didn’t respond, and instead pursed her lips tightly; she felt like opening her mouth will result in her just screaming. She felt like she’s about to explode, like her heart’s about to break free again, like the slightest offense might cause her to lose it.

“That’ll be twenty bucks.” the driver said, pulling up right before the entrance to the park.

“Keep the change.” Charlie said, handing him a hundred dollar bill and getting out of the car. “Bye.”

She hurried through the main gate without looking around; the park was littered, dimly lit and unkempt. It wasn’t a new sight; she knew what do unkempt, forgotten parks look like. They all looked the same; very grey, foreboding, depressing. 

The park seemed to be empty; _good_ , she thought. _Fantastic._

“I’m here.” she announced out loud, her voice trembling and her vision blurry. 

No one responded.

“I’m here.” she repeated, focusing on the stone bust before her. It depicted a stout, stern-looking man with a monocle and impressive sideburns; according to the plaque - his name was Theodore Cobblepot. 

Charlie stared at the bust in silence. There was something very unsettling about it; something eerie, something out of place.

“I’m here.” she repeated desperately, looking around in search of… Anything, really. A clue. Oswald himself. A miracle. 

The pull inside of her tugged at her heart one more time - and vanished.

“You _lost_?” someone asked from behind her; and Charlie jumped in place, turning around. “Or just _crazy_?” the man added as she clutched her purse nervously.

He was taller than her, and not very muscular; but deep, old, wide scars on his face told her she might not want to start shit with him.

(He had a bright, purple mohawk; normally she’d find it cool. This time however - there was nothing cool about it.)

“Good evening.” she said anxiously; suddenly all of her impatient excitement was gone, replaced by pure, tingling fear that made her knees weak and her fingers shaky. “I… I’ll be leaving now.” she added quickly, taking a step to the right; the men didn’t move, and for a moment, for a split second, for half a heartbeat she felt everything’s gonna be okay-

the man grabbed her by her shirt and pulled her towards him and she screamed and he covered her mouth with his hand and she could feel something cold and sharp pressing against her neck and she was paralyzed and trembling so much it felt like her body is falling apart.

“Give me your purse, bitch.” the man said. “Or you’re _dead_.”

Charlie pressed her purse to her chest tightly; and the men pressed the knife to her neck.

It _hurt_ ; and he was serious. There was something bored in his voice, something blase, something almost uncaring; and it terrified her.

Charlie dropped her purse onto the ground; the man laughed.

“Smart girl.” he said; but he didn’t let her go. “Almost makes me wonder… What _else_ would you be willing to do to stay alive?”

She froze, feeling his breath on her ear.

Hot, heavy tears began to stream down her face.

The man laughed; the sound of his laughter almost made her throw up.

“Nah, I’m just kidding.” he said, taking his hand off her mouth. “Get out of ‘ere.” he added, taking the knife away as well. “Before I change my mind.”

He pushed her; hard enough for her to fall down, scraping her knees and hands.

She got up and ran away, tears streaming down her face; and the man laughed as she sobbed, her knees and hands burning.

Outside the park she ran into a policewoman; though to be fair Charlie didn’t just run into her. She bumped into her at full speed, nearly causing the woman to fall down.

“Watch it!” the woman replied impulsively; she didn’t sound angry. If anything - she sounded tired.

“I… I’m s… I’m sorry…” Charlie sobbed out in response. “I… I…”

“Miss, what’s wrong?” the woman asked, reaching for her gun. “Is there a problem?”

“I was mugged.” Charlie said tearfully, crossing her arms in embarrassment. “In… In the park.”

“The _Cobblepot_ Park?”

“I _know_ it’s dangerous to go there after dawn.” Charlie said defensively; the policewoman sighed.

“I’m not judging you, miss.” she said, shaking her head. “Come on. The station’s nearby. We’ll see what we can do to help.”

It was a _very_ long night for Charlie.

First she had to answer tons of questions from the policeman behind the desk; then she had to get in touch with her bank’s customer service, since the mugger took her credit card and all of her cash. She also had to get in touch with the company responsible for securing her building; she had to inform them of “the security breach” in regards to her key being stolen. Finally, she also had to reach out to her mobile provider and request her number to be blocked due to her phone being stolen; it was all exhausting.

At the very least the man didn’t take her ID; she never carried it in her purse, instead stuffing it in her bra. Many people told her it’s silly and pointless; but she couldn’t care less. All she cared about was going home, taking a long, hot shower and falling asleep for twelve hours.

(Or less; the customer service person she talked to informed her the courier with her new card and some paperwork will visit her around nine in the morning.)

She cried herself to sleep; even though she left all the lights in her apartment on - it was empty and cold and she felt lonely and lost. Her mother, her father, Harry, her friends; everyone was _gone_ and there was no one there to embrace her, no one to keep her from falling apart.

(The quiet loneliness was unbearable; it made her feel like she didn’t exist.)

After getting her new card she went to the nearest store and bought herself a new phone; and she cried realizing all of her old pictures and texts and notes were _gone_. She had tons of pictures of her parents there, and lots of texts from them; and everything was gone, same way _they_ were gone.

***

About a week later she found an envelope on her doorstep.

There was no address on it, and it was made out of thick, good quality paper; inside Charlie found a note instructing her to come to the Cobblepot Park shortly before midnight.

The note was signed by _S.M_ ; and as far as she could tell - the cursive, elegant signature matched the decorative - but still legible - handwriting above it.

The note wasn’t perfumed, nor it hid another message, written in invisible ink; and Charlie checked. 

For about an hour - she stared at the note in silence, thoughts racing through her head.

It seemed like mister Maroni - or someone else whose initials were S.M - wanted to meet her; it seemed too perfect to be true. It felt like a set-up, it felt like a trap; but it could as well be _real_. But _why_? _Why_ would Gotham’s most elusive, secretive multi-millionaire want to meet her? Did he _know_? Was _he_ investigating _her_ as well?

(She shuddered at the thought of being investigated, examined, considered.)

Naturally - she went to the park.

This time she didn’t take a purse, instead stuffing everything into the pockets of her jacket; her ID. Some cash. Her still brand-new, unscratched, shiny phone. A can of pepper spray. A stun gun. A switchblade.

(Her fingers trembled when she picked the knife up, the memory of another blade’s merciless edge pressing to her skin still fresh, still making her skin burn.)

It was a cold night; Charlie shivered, walking up to the park’s entrance. She hid her hands in her pockets and her face in the collar of her jacket; but it wasn’t enough. Her bare legs - _damn you, summer dress -_ were freezing; and she couldn’t decide if they’re trembling because of cold, or because of anxiety.

( _maybe it’s both. can it be both? it’s probably both_.)

“H-hello?” she called out after entering the park. “Mister… Mister Maroni?”

“He’s waiting for you.” someone replied; and Charlie jumped in place, startled by it. “Go to the bust.” the voice added.

It belonged to a tall, bald man in a suit; he was standing in the shadow on her right, his black suit blending in with the darkness.

“Th… Thanks.” Charlie replied hesitantly. “Hey, so am I in trouble, or-”

“Go to the bust.” the man repeated; and Charlie sighed.

She was _definitely_ in trouble.

Slowly and cautiously she found her way to the bust of Theodore Cobblepot; and someone was standing right in front of it, with his back turned to Charlie.

A man, a bit taller than her; stocky. Black-haired. His body was shaped like a pear, narrow at the top and wide at the bottom; he was wearing a suit and was standing with his hands in his pockets.

“Mister Maroni?” Charlie asked hesitantly, stopping at the edge of the small square. “I’m… I’m here.”

The man looked over his shoulder; he looked like a basset hound. His skin was wrinkly and loose and his eyes were so, so tired; he looked like he carried an unspeakable burden.

“Good evening, miss Schiller-Aberdeen.” Maroni said. “We need to talk.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charlie gets one step closer to finding oswald - OR DOES SHE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that took forever to write lmao. i guess life just happened - first i went to vacation, and then i struggled with writer's block an an INTENSE urge to play every game i played as a child.  
> in other, totally unrelated news: guess who 100%ed stewart little 3 and series of unfortunate events on ps2.

Men she didn’t see there before stepped out of the shadows; the square was surrounded, and Charlie could hear someone breathing two steps behind her.

She was terrified.

“True.” she agreed, not moving from her spot. “So… You talk first? I talk first?”

Maroni turned around and smiled; it was a weird smile, one that looked more like a scowl. It didn’t reach his eyes; and for a moment that felt like eternity - he didn’t say anything.

Finally though - he talked. 

“We have much to talk about.” he said, walking up to the nearest bench; he walked slowly, swaying his wide hips and thighs slightly when putting his weight on his right knee. 

“Please, take a seat.” he added, gesturing towards the bench; it was made out of stone and was covered in graffiti. 

Charlie shook her head.

“I’m good.” she said, only barely stopping herself from looking around in search of an escape route.

Maroni frowned, sitting down.

“I insist.” he said. “A gentleman shouldn’t be sitting in presence of a lady who’s standing… And I’d hate to come off as rude simply because of my old bones.”

“It’s alright.” she replied, doing her best to not sound nervous, to stop her voice from shaking. “I… I’d rather avoid sitting on a cold stone.”

“How sensible of you.” Maroni said flatly. “Now, miss Charlotte…”

He paused; and Charlie gulped, wondering what is he going to say next. _I grant you one final wish_? Surely the situation she had found herself in was _far_ from being ideal; and it didn’t seem like she’s going to make it out in one piece. Maroni brought a lot of his men with him; and Charlie sincerely doubted she’d be able to best even _one_ of them in a fight.

“I’m sure you have many questions.” he said finally, looking at the stone bust of a stern looking man in a monocle. “Which one do you want me to answer first?”

Charlie blinked, desperately trying to halt her shaking hands and calm her racing thoughts.

“Um…” she muttered, trying to come up with as much as a _one_ actual question. “Why did you want to meet me?”

Maroni sighed.

“I thought that’s obvious.” he said, motioning towards one of his men. “Giacomo! The bag.”

Giacomo - tall, blonde-haired, lean and completely silent - handed Maroni a purse; _Charlie’s_ purse.

“The man who mugged you went through your phone.” Maroni said, putting the purse down next to him. “And your notes. And you have to admit, miss… Those notes _did_ paint you as someone I should be aware of.”

“What?” she asked, trying to force her - _stupid useless slow -_ brain to remember what did she even write down in the first place. “Uhm. Yeah. Of course.”

“It was an interesting read, miss Charlotte. Your investigation was… Surprisingly thorough.” he said, taking her notes out of her purse. “And you didn’t even have to actually _go_ anywhere. We truly live in interesting times.” he added flatly. “But the question remains… _Why_ did you put all that effort into investigating an old, reclusive man? And please, be honest with me.”

Charlie gulped quietly; Maroni looked at her, and his tired eyes felt both piercing and hollow. His gaze felt as flat as his voice; and it was most unnerving.

“I…” she said hesitantly, trying to put her thoughts into some actual words. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“And the night is still young.” he replied, briefly glancing at the dark sky. “If it’s of any help… You can skip everything regarding your life in Metropolis.”

Charlie pursed her lips and crossed her arms, muffling a long, shaky sigh. _Of course_ he knew; the sudden deaths of her parents caused quite a stir in the media. All Maroni had to do was to simply google her name; technology sure as hell made many things rather anti-climatic.

“Right.” she said slowly. “So. To be perfectly honest, mister Maroni… I wasn’t trying to investigate _you_. I mean, I _was_.” she added quickly, seeing him raise his eyebrows skeptically. “I’m not making any sense, I know. But I can assure you - I didn’t investigate you because of Carmine Falcone, or the Waynes, or… Whoever else people speculate you are, or were, friends with-”

“I was never a friend of the Waynes.” he said with a sigh. “A pity. But it does seem their butler did an excellent job raising their boy.”

“And what about the Cobblepots?” Charlie asked quickly, quietly noting his lack of acknowledgment of her mention of Carmine Falcone.

For a long while he didn’t respond; instead he squinted. The tip of his massive nose twitched uncontrollably, and his - fleshy, heavy, thick - upper lip curled up slightly, exposing his surprisingly tiny teeth.

“The Cobblepots are _dead_ , miss Charlotte.” Maroni said finally, once again fixing his gaze on the bust. “And dwelling on the topic will not bring them back to life.”

“But not all of them are dead.” she said desperately. “Oswald Cobblepot is _alive_ , mister Maroni. He’s _alive_ \- and I want to find him.”

“Interesting.” he said after a long, heavy pause. “Do riddle me this, miss Charlotte… What do _I_ have to do with your search?”

“I don’t know.” she said shakily, clenching her fists in fruitless, blunt frustration. “I… I don’t know. But I saw you at doctor Leland’s office some time ago, and I… You know what happened to my family, mister Maroni.” she said, desperately trying to pull herself together. “It… It caused me to _split_. I fell apart. My hollow stayed in Metropolis, but my darkling… She lived her own life. I think she fell in love with Oswald Cobblepot, and I think… I think she still loves him, even now, after reuniting with my hollow. There’s a pull inside of me, mister Maroni. This pull brought me to Gotham… And it made me investigate you. And I don’t know why. I don’t remember anything, only… Only glimpses. I remember his eyes. I remember him telling me he’s from Gotham. And the rest is just… Pitch black.”

“Interesting.” Maroni repeated flatly. “And… _Highly_ unlikely.” he added; and Charlie froze. “For you see, miss Charlotte… I’ve never _met_ young Oswald. If anything you’re saying is true… Mister Cobblepot - assuming you _really_ met him, and are not using him as an excuse - would have no reason to talk about me to anyone else. To put it simply… Your story is not making sense.”

“But it’s true!” she said desperately. “Mister Maroni, I swear-”

“This was a waste of time.” Maroni stated, slowly and heavily getting up from the bench; and Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. “Miss Charlotte, I _strongly_ recommend you find yourself a new hobby. I’m sure Joan would agree.” he added dryly; and Charlie blinked, momentarily having forgotten who Joan is. “If I were you I’d keep this whole conversation to myself.”

“But I-”

“Enough.” he interrupted her tiredly. “Enough. Don’t waste your youth chasing echoes, miss Charlotte. Have a good night… And please, refrain from investigating me in the future. Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”

He walked away slowly; and all of his men followed him without as much as glancing in her direction. Moments later she was alone in the park; and her hands were shaking and her heart was pounding.

“Fuck.” she muttered to herself, walking up to the bench where her purse was. “Shit.”

She sat down on the bench, wincing slightly when she felt how warm it was due to Maroni’s pillowy bottom.

“What now?” she whispered, closing her eyes. “What now?”

She was hoping for another flashback, another splintered memory, another cloudy echo; but she only heard her rapid heartbeat.

***

“Alfred. Did you get that?”

“I did, master Bruce.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure, master Bruce. I can’t say I’m well acquainted with mister Maroni. He’s… Reclusive.”

“And he’s very good at avoiding answering questions directly.”

“That is also true. Who is this woman anyway? She seems… Familiar.”

“No idea. I’ve heard some chatter about Falcone completely clearing out the park for the night, and I sent a drone to see what’s going on. I definitely wasn’t expecting either Maroni… Or her.”

“Hmm. Give me a moment, master Bruce… And there she is. Ah. No wonder she seems familiar. She’s the daughter of Crispin Schiller-Aberdeen.”

“I can’t say I remember him.”

“He is… Or rather _was_ … A politician from Metropolis. He criticized Hamilton Hill during the previous election. In a rather… Colorful way. He died in a car crash some time ago.”

“Hm. And now his daughter’s in Gotham, searching for Oswald.”

“Master Bruce, if I may…”

“Go on.”

“She did sound a bit desperate.”

“Yeah. But then again… So does everyone with the post-split amnesia. What intrigues me the most is where did Maroni enter the equation.”

“I’m afraid I cannot provide an answer to this question, master Bruce. As I mentioned, Salvatore Maroni is rather reclusive… Perhaps it’s about blood?”

“Hm. No, this can’t be it. Crowes are the only relatives of the Cobblepots I’m aware of.”

“Do you intend to pursue this matter further?”

“Not actively… Though I _do_ want to see how this thing develops. Besides, if she really is searching for Oz - it’s only a matter of time before she reaches out to me.”

“If I may ask… What are you going to say to her?”

“The truth - that I wish I could help her, but I have no clue where could Oz be, as we hadn’t been in touch lately.”

“And… What is _Batman_ going to do about Falcone clearing out the park for mister Maroni?”

“Observe. Until now I hadn’t really considered Maroni as a threat… But anyone with ties to Carmine Falcone is a menace.”

“Well said, master Bruce. When should I expect you?”

“In a few hours. I still have some… Work to do.”

“Understandable. Please, do take care.”

“You too, Al.”

***

“Good afternoon, doctor Leland.”

“Good afternoon, miss Charlotte.” Leland greeted her, not looking up from a stack of papers on her desk. “I’ll be right with you, I just need to finish the paperwork.”

“Of course.” Charlie said with a nod, standing with her hand on the doorknob. “Do you want me to wait outside, or-”

“No, no, you can have a seat here, I just…” Leland muttered, signing a few sheets of paper in rapid succession. “And here, and here, and here… Thank goodness, that was the last one.” she sighed, moving the stack aside. “I swear, major Hill is actively trying to drive psychiatrists and therapists out of Gotham. Each year the Hill administration comes up with more and more paperwork for us to do.”

“Oh yeah, I remember my dad was angry about it.” Charlie said with a sigh; her heart ached when she thought of her father and the way he’d gesticulate whenever he talked about something he had strong opinions about. And since _all_ of his opinions were strong, he gesticulated a _lot_ ; as a child Charlie loved to ask him questions, just to watch him wave his hands as he explained why equating disliking cats with being a bad person is an inherently flawed concept. “Have you heard one of his rants?”

“I did.” Leland said, smiling lightly. “Your father was a fantastic public speaker.”

“Yeah. Some people theorized that surely his speeches are so good only because my mother edits them for him… But she never touched any of his drafts. It was all him.” Charlie said, thinking about all those times Crispin stayed up all night just to write the perfect speech. He’d always spend hours upon hours coming up with new arguments, researching his points, building his visions; and yet - his brilliant intellect, his contagious passion, his intense love for the fellow man all turned out to be useless when confronted with cold, cruel greed of Harry Spencer. His genius, his passion, his love - all were voided in a split second and all that remained was lifeless flesh. “Although it would be interesting to hear an effect of their cooperation.”

“Absolutely.” Leland agreed, reaching for Charlie’s file. “So, miss Charlotte… How are you?”

“Kind of restless.” Charlie said; she wasn’t lying.

Ever since her - anti-climatic and odd - meeting with Salvatore Maroni she found herself unable to focus on anything, unable to remain still, unable to fall asleep at night. After she got back from the park the pull inside of her returned; but this time it was directionless, more of a relentless, restless buzz than an actual pull. It made her hands shake; and it made her want to scream. Her heart was alive; it was alive and impatient and needy.

“Restless? That’s not great.” Leland sighed. “What kind of _restless_ is it?”

“The kind that feels like I drank five Red Bulls at once… Except I didn’t. I’m… Anxious. Can’t focus, can’t sleep, and there’s this… Buzzing.”

“Buzzing?”

“Buzzing. It’s like a pull, but… It’s directionless and in every direction at once. My heart wants _something_ \- and it’s tiring.”

“Mmm.” Leland muttered. “Perhaps in addition to medication a change of surroundings could help, or perhaps making yourself occupied…”

“I’m not going to start knitting.” Charlie said immediately, much more defensive than she intended; and Leland shot her a surprised look. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound so aggressive, it’s just… Isn’t it what were you getting up? That I should get a hobby, or a passion, and just… _Not_ think about it, until it goes away?”

“Not at all, miss Charlotte.” Leland said calmly. “Did you make any friends in Gotham?”

Charlie sank into her seat.

“No.” she muttered in response, looking away in embarrassment. “Making friends at the age of twenty five is more difficult than it was when I was… Six. I can’t just walk up to someone, say _your pants are super cool!_ and ask if we can eat lunch together.”

“Oh, but you absolutely can. Perhaps not _literally_ … But that’s what initiating conversations boils down to.” Leland said, folding her hands. “And while interacting with other people most definitely won’t fix your problem… It’d certainly be a huge improvement.”

“Would it though?” Charlie asked, not at all convinced. “Because I’m not… That good at being around other people.”

“Really? I remember you talking about partying with your friends a lot.”

“Yeah, but I was always the _quiet_ one. The _great listener_ one. The _proper_ one. The _kinda just tags along_ one. I think everyone has that one friend that could go one day just disappear and no one would actually care. I’m that friend.” Charlie blurted out, gripping the fabric of her dress tightly, to hide the fact her fingers are trembling. “Everyone would notice, sure - but no one would _care_. And that’s exactly what happened. So I guess you could say I’m _really_ bad at having friends.”

“Or maybe you simply happened to be friends with wrong people.” Leland suggested gently. “And I know this is going to sound _very_ bad, considering the exact situation you’re in, but… Perhaps this might be a good occasion to make some better friends?”

Charlie sighed.

“I know, miss Charlotte, I know. But we both have to admit that isolation and solitude are _not_ good for you. In fact - they’re not good for _anyone_ , since forming herds and clans is a part of human nature. And as your doctor… I truly want what’s best for you and your. Especially considering you _did_ put your mental well-being in my hands.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because I wasn’t expecting you to tell me to _go out and make some new friends_.” Charlie said, desperately trying to hide how embarrassed she was by the whole conversation. Being twenty five and admitting she has absolutely no idea how to make friends felt - and was - humiliating; even if it was just the two of them. Even if Leland was her psychiatrist. Even if she probably already figured that much out. “That… That was a joke.”

“Jokes as defensive mechanism. How _innovative_.” Leland said with the faintest hint of smile in the corners of her thin lips. “Miss Charlotte… I only want to _help_ you.”

“I don’t know how to meet new people.” Charlie said; the last shreds of her pride tasted bitter in her mouth as she swallowed them. Doctor Leland was, naturally, right; and solitude wasn’t good for her. The silence of her apartment felt overwhelming, and paralyzing; and she often found herself talking when alone just to fill that silence with something, with _anything_. “I don’t know how to reach out to those I _already_ know. I’m… Very bad at that whole _relationships_ thing. I’m passive, and I have no idea how to _initiate_ anything. I just… Go with the flow, like a grain of sand in the storm.” she said, clenching her fists tightly; she felt both lighter and embarrassed, hopeful and helpless. Everything she had said was true, and a part of herself; even if she hated it, even if it was pathetic, even if she was ashamed of it.

“I’m very glad you said it, miss Charlotte.” Leland said calmly; and Charlie pursed her lips tightly. Her cheeks were burning; and for some odd reason - Leland’s calm demeanor was only making her own shame _worse_. “Putting a problem into actual words is the first step towards fixing it.”

“I thought it’s acknowledging it.”

“That’d be the _second_ step. It’s impossible to acknowledge something that has no form, no shape.”

“Right.” Charlie said hesitantly. “So, doctor… _How_ do people my age meet new people?”

“First you need to ask yourself how do you want to spend your time. And… Go from there. Gotham has something in stock for _everyone_ , miss Charlotte. You could sign up for a cooking class and talk to the person next to you. You could start working for a non profit. You could sign up for group therapy for people with severe social anxiety - which I’d _strongly_ recommend. Or you could simply go to some open for all fundraiser, or charity concert. You could go to a lecture as a guest listener, sign up for an art class, offer to be a _model_ for an art class… The possibilities are endless. It all depends on what you like.”

( _No mention of the therapy group for people with the post-split syndrome? Figures_.)

“Riiight.” Charlie said slowly. “Wait. Did you say _severe social anxiety_?”

“Please, miss Charlotte, don’t try to tell me you _don’t_ have anxiety. It’d be _very_ counterproductive.”

“I was sure it’s either depression _or_ anxiety. I thought it’s… Impossible to have them both.”

“Not only it’s possible, it’s also _very_ common.” Leland said, shuffling through the papers on her desk. “Ah! There it is.” she added, handing Charlie a thick brochure. “It’s a publication by the St. Cloud Foundation, which aims to help people with anxiety _and_ depression. They host weekly support group meetings anyone can join.”

“Thanks.” Charlie said, putting the brochure into her purse. “I’ll… I’ll read it.”

“I’m not going to ask you any trick question about what’s in the brochure, miss Charlotte.” Leland said with a knowing smile. “I can’t _force_ you to do anything, I can only _suggest_. And - I _suggest_ you read it.”

“...sure.” Charlie said, looking at the clock above Leland’s head; their time was almost up.

“I’ll get going.” she said, getting up from the chair. “But before I go…”

“Yes?”

“C-could you prescribe me those pills that… Soften the post-split pull?” Charlie asked quickly, quietly, flatly. The words felt bitter and sharp in her mouth; she didn’t like them, she didn’t want them.

Leland furrowed her brows.

“Those pills don’t work like that.” she said finally. “They don’t _just_ soften the pull, they get rid of it _completely_ , along with the flashbacks.”

(The pills had been first released to the general public a few years before Charlie was born; they were manufactured by a Wayne Enterprises subsidiary. They were more than revolutionary; they were a miracle, allowing people to live in peace after becoming whole again, allowing them to ignore the impulses that weren’t their own, allowing them to muffle the incomplete memories their hearts fixated on.)

“I’m… Aware.” Charlie said cautiously. “That was… An euphemism. Anyway, could I maybe… Get a prescription?”

Silence only interrupted by the clock’s ticking fell in the room; Leland squinted slightly, watching Charlie like a very skeptical hawk.

“Are you sure?” she asked finally. “Because once you begin taking them… You’ll have to stick to it. It’s a road of no return.”

“That sounds… Grim.” Charlie said, anxiously twisting her fingers. “But yeah. I’ve made up my mind. I’m tired, doctor. I want to put that part of my life to rest - but I can’t. It brought me to Gotham, and I’m _fine_ with it. I can stay here. I can live here. I just want to live _peacefully_.”

“Alright.” Leland replied after a long, heavy pause; Charlie watched her with bated breath, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it’s going to explode. Or implode. Or both, if it’s even possible. “I suppose it’s good we can scratch most of the paperwork off the list.”

“...paperwork?”

“Those pills are not like antidepressants.” Leland said, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Before a prescription is given out to the patient… The patient needs to be evaluated. A blood test and an MRI are also necessary, but you’ve already provided those… So i’m only going to need you to sign a paper stating this was a conscious decision and that you’ve been informed of various possible side effects and contraindications. You may experience insomnia, high blood pressure, nausea, anxiety, mood swings and lack of appetite… And consumption of alcohol or recreational drugs is _highly_ inadvisable.” Leland said flatly, almost mechanically. “Other than that… The pills mix well with every over-the-counter painkiller and vitamin and can be consumed with pretty much any food item imaginable.”

“And what about my meds? And stuff like antibiotics?”

“Your current medication mixes rather well with Quiesil. As for antibiotics… It varies. Some mix well, some… Not so well. It’d be best to simply let the person prescribing it know you’ve ingested Quiesil recently, so they know what to prescribe.”

“So…” Charlie began slowly; she was feeling perfectly, absolutely numb. It was almost surprising; she thought whatever remained of her darkling would be scream, or gnaw at her insides, or frantically try to pull her out of Leland’s office and as far away from her as possible. It seemed - and felt - like the problem had solved itself; or maybe its source simply knew she’s safe and sound, that Charlie’s lying, that she’s not going to take a single pill. “What is it gonna be like? Is it just taking pills, or-”

“You’ll get a sheet of fifty pills. Take one every day without skipping… And that’s it. Just make sure to avoid alcohol and drugs for ten days before and after beginning the treatment.” Leland said, reaching for her rubber stamp. “So… Are you certain?”

“One hundred percent.” Charlie said; that wasn’t exactly a lie. She _was_ one hundred percent certain that she wasn’t going to actually _take_ Quiesil.

“Alright.” Leland said with a sigh, stamping the documents for Charlie to sign. “Sign here, and here… And the date, yes… Here you go.” she added, handing her the prescription slip as Charlie put the pencil down. “Every pharmacy in Gotham should be able to sell it to you.”

“Thank you.” Charlie said, putting the slip into her wallet.

On her way out - she bumped into Salvatore Maroni.

“Excuse me.” he muttered, shuffling past her; he glanced at her face briefly and looked away just as she opened her mouth to greet him. 

In the end, she didn’t say anything; and instead she just watched him enter doctor Leland’s office in silence. It seemed like he didn’t even _remember_ her; and yet there she was, lying to her psychiatrist just to make sure Maroni thinks she’s no longer going to pursue the topic of him being somehow associated with Oswald Cobblepot.

She didn’t see any of his men outside the clinic; it was just her, clutching her purse; and busy people of Gotham, walking past her without actually seeing her.

She felt invisible.

She felt like a ghost.

***

After coming back home, she threw the box of Quiesil into a far corner of her bedroom, just to get it out of view; not that putting it in any other spot in her apartment would make any difference at all - her place was a _mess_. Her clothes and cosmetics and other belongings were scattered everywhere; and her kitchen and living room were littered with empty takeout containers, candy wrappings and soda and wine bottles. 

She didn’t have any actual reasons to clean - she didn’t mind the mess, and it’s not like anyone was visiting her anyway. A part of her felt like maybe she should hire someone to keep her apartment clean for her - but another, bigger part of her only saw the downsides of that solution. She’d have to pretend she has things to do and places to be; and someone - a stranger - would see her trash, and laundry, and perfectly untouched kitchen. That perspective felt overwhelming, and scary; and she much rather preferred her mess over a stranger forming an opinion regarding her dietary habits.

“Alright.” she said, sitting down on the couch; the silence in the room felt almost overwhelming - but she had no idea what to fill it with. All she had was her own voice; she didn’t feel a need to watch anything, to listen to a podcast or a song, to play a game. At the same time she felt content and distraught; the silence was calming - but also paralyzing. “Now…” she muttered to herself, reaching for her brand-new laptop; she bought it one day earlier - online. The courier delivered it a few hours later; sure, same day delivery costed a small fortune - but she didn’t mind. She’d rather pay more, than go to the store; there was something impossibly dreadful about the concept of going to the store, of fetching a store consultant to advise her what laptop she should buy, of awkwardly answering questions asked by a complete stranger. It felt overwhelming; so instead she simply bought it online, limiting the required human interactions to thanking and tipping the courier and signing the delivery confirmation. “First things first… Let’s get you as safe as possible.” she muttered, paying for a five year license of - allegedly - the best antivirus available. “And something to keep _me_ safe…” she added, paying for a VPN. “Aaaand TOR browser, just to be sure… Perfect. And let’s use the fingerprint reader to lock the system, _and_ voice recognition… Open sesame!” she added for the sake of built-in voice recognition software.

 _Password registered_ , the pop-up message informed her; and she sighed with relief.

After her misadventure at the Cobblepot Park she no longer felt safe simply using her phone to browse the internet; the mugger went through her (not even secured with a PIN code) phone. Her phone had _everything_ on it; her emails, her twitter and Instagram DMs, her online banking app, her text messages, pictures of her parents, pictures of Harry (she couldn’t bring herself to delete them, even though she hated him, even though she murdered him; deleting the pictures simply felt too final - and having pictures of a smiling man on her phone made her feel and look less pathetic, less lonely, less laughable) and her selfies. Luckily there were no nudes on it; but still - she was sure the man went through much more than just her browser history. After coming back home from her first visit at the park she changed all passwords, and remotely ended all login sessions; but it wasn’t enough. She was sure the man now knew a great deal about her, a great deal of things only her ( _absent and almost forgotten, were we ever really friends? I barely remember their faces anymore_ ) close friends were supposed to know.

( _Do you even remember Jemina’s face?_ )

“Shut up!” she exclaimed loudly; of course she remembered Jemina’s face. She knew it like the back of her own hand. Jemina’s face was round, and her skin was smooth, and her eyes were blue… Or maybe green? No, no, they were grey… Although they could be dark brown…

Charlie hid her face in her hands, realizing she could barely remember what does her best friend since childhood look like. She could remember a mass of blonde curls that looked like a halo, and dark skin; but the details were hazy.

( _When was the last time you talked to her anyway?_ )

“Shut up.” she repeated shakily; she hadn’t talked to Jemina since her mother’s funeral, months ago. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut-”

She was interrupted by the sound of her doorbell; high-pitched and sharp, it was very efficient at bringing her back to Earth.

“C-coming!” she stuttered out, getting up from the couch and nearly knocking her laptop onto the ground. “Fuck.” she muttered, cautiously setting it down on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry.” she said, opening the door. “I just-”

She paused, realising there was no one behind the door. She looked left and right; but the brightly lit hallway was completely empty. She could hear the family who lived in the apartment at the other side of the hallway talking about their dinner plans - but there was no one there who could possibly ring the bell.

Just as she was about to come back inside - she noticed something laying on the floor.

An envelope.

Charlie sighed, picking it up.

“Honestly.” she muttered, examining it; it was made out of thick, good quality paper and was not addressed. “What’s wrong with simply _calling_ me?”

When she turned around - she heard someone running through the hallway, just behind her.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, dropping the envelope and giving chase to the runner; it was an impulse. She had no idea what was she going to do if she caught up to whoever was running; but she chased after them anyway.

The person who - presumably, probably - dropped the envelope was very fast; way too fast for her to catch up to them before they reached the stairs.

“Wait!” she called out to them, desperately trying to hide exactly how terribly out of shape she was; the short run made her gasp for air. She was covered in sweat, and her heart was pounding, and she felt like she’s about to fall down. She gripped the handrail tightly; and leaned over it slightly, watching the mysterious runner run down the stairs. 

The person - they seemed to be a young, scrawny boy - had dark, slightly curly hair; he was wearing perfectly ordinary clothes, a bit stained here and there, and a bit torn.

“J-Jesus.” Charlie panted out, slowly returning to her apartment; none of her neighbors seemed to be bothered by her yelling. 

She closed the door, grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and sank into her couch, completely out of breath.

Finally though - she picked the envelope up and opened it. She expected another message from Maroni; perhaps the old man changed his mind and decided to tell her something about Oswald Cobblepot. Perhaps him suggesting she asks doctor Leland for a Quiesil prescription was just a test, a test she passed; perhaps he knew why is a part of her so desperate to find Oswald; or maybe-

Her excitement fizzed out the moment she read the message found in the envelope.

“Literally what about me or my life suggests I’m interested in _contemporary art portraying the value of freedom_?” she asked out loud, feeling confused and slightly bewildered. “I mean, yeah, sure, dad would probably drag me along, but… Really? All that hassle… For _this_?”

Inside the envelope she found an invitation to a vernissage, preceding the opening of the exhibition of Daedalus Boch’s works to the general public; nothing more - and nothing less.

While she never followed Boch’s career - she was well aware of who he is. Her parents - especially Crispin - adored his works; all his paintings were vibrant and expressive and surreal. Boch considered freedom - of thought, expression, creation - to be the most important principle; and he celebrated it with his every painting, often paying homage to his favorite musicians, other painters, movie directors with his pieces. He also often paid homage to his communities; as a black gay man he placed immense emphasis on the value of community, solidarity, love. While he wasn’t Charlie’s favorite artist - she certainly understood the appeal.

The thing she _didn’t_ understand, however, was why exactly did a random teenage boy drop the vernissage invitation onto her doorstep and ran away like his life depended on it.

“Hm.” she muttered to herself, turning the card around to take a look at its back. “Nothing. Wait, I think I have an UV flashlight…”

It didn’t reveal anything.

“Alright.” she sighed, putting it down. “I give up. I have one and a half brain cell.”

She picked the invitation up again; and then it struck her.

“... _vernissage, hosted by… Bruce Wayne_!” she exclaimed excitedly. “He was Oswald’s best friend! If anyone knows where to find him - it’s gonna be him!”

She paused, excitedly waiting for another incomplete flashback to hit her; but nothing happened. Nothing - except for dull heartache the moment she mentioned Oswald out loud.

“Oh _come on_!” she said, hiding her face in her hands. “Give me _something_!”

And yet - nothing came to her. No flashback, no pull. For a moment, she simply sat there in complete silence, alone in Gotham; she came there searching for a man - and she didn’t even know _why._ She couldn’t even _remember_ him; but deep inside - a strange, alien part of her wanted for him to be there. For him to tell her what happened to her during those missing months, where did she go, what did she do, how did she die. She sort of knew what did her Hollow do, as she kept a meticulous diary, up until the point when she wrote _I’m tired and when I wake up I’m going to feel again_ ; and it’s not like her Hollow had lead an interesting life. She experienced many things Charlie wanted to never experience, like informing the police of Harry’s death and schemes; but her Darkling was up to god knows what, god knows where, with god knows who.

And just as Charlie was about to get up from the couch - a faint, distant, blurry, fragmented memory came to her. More of a flash, really; blurry and vague.

_They’re in bed. She’s laying with her head on his chest. She hears his heartbeat, steady and strong. Their fingers are intertwined. “I love you.” he says; she can’t remember the sound of his voice - but she remembers his words, and the way they made her feel._

_She felt content, and loved, and safe; he held her in his arms_ and the distant, unreal, impossible memory of that warmth almost made Charlie cry on her couch in Gotham.

It was weird; she only vaguely remembered a feeling - but it was enough to make her yearn, yearn for safety, and love, and warmth, and for someone’s arms around her.

It was painful; and in that moment - Charlie felt more alone than ever before.

***

“Well, Jason? Did you deliver it?”

“Yeah.”

“And… Did the lady in question see you?”

“Super briefly. What, is that a problem?”

“No, no, not at all. How much do I owe you?”

“Pffffft. I don’t want your money.”

“...alright.”

“I want a favor.”

“Great. So… What do you need from me?”

“Pffffft. All in due time, mister Wayne. All in due time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in this one charlie tries to exist - and meets some new people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOY this one took me ages lmao. you know what sucks? depression and chronic illness. anyway, we're getting closer to oz finally making a grand appearance.

_They’re in a crowded bar. Charlie’s not herself. There’s a lot of her missing; she can constantly feel all of her emotions flowing through her, burning, screaming, begging to be expressed. She ignores them, and instead focuses on the person at the other side of the table. “You can call me Oswald. Or… Cobblepot.” he says; she can’t remember his voice, but she remembers his words. The man is from Gotham. His eyes are grey and tired; intelligent. Calculating. Pleasantly piercing._

**__** _She remembers his hands; a bit rough. Long, slender fingers; hands of an artist. But his skin is rough, and there are scars on his fingers. The memory cuts off._

_They’re in bed._

_She can hear and feel his heartbeat; he quietly tells her he loves her._

_It makes her feel complete and alive and like a real person._

_There’s a lot of her missing; she can constantly feel all of her emotions flowing through her, burning, screaming, begging to be expressed._

_He tells her he loves her. She can’t remember the sound of his voice, but she remembers his tone; it’s soft. Tender. Warm. It makes her feel safe._

_She can feel his fingers in her hair. She can’t remember his face, or his voice, but she remembers how his presence seemed to calm down the raw emotions coursing through her veins and burning her from the inside._

_She opens her mouth to respond; and the memory cuts off._

Charlie’s alarm clock let out a loud, piercing screech; she groaned, pressing her face against her - admittedly not exactly fresh - pillow. Her eyes remained closed, and she did her best to ignore the - almost painful - sounds made by her clock. She bought is precisely because of those sounds, believing them to be too unbearable for her to be able to ignore them; but within a few days - she unfortunately learned how to do just that. She learned to tune the sound out, to ignore it for long enough to be able to doze off again; she even learned how to throw a spare pillow across the room to knock the alarm off the shelf, silencing it in the process.

(She knocked it down countless times; somehow, it didn’t break - even though sometimes she wished it would.)

With her eyes still closed, Charlie reached out with her right hand, blindly searching for a spare pillow to throw at the pesky clock; but instead of a soft pillow - her hand landed on something warm and firm and fleshy and _she could feel his heartbeat under her fingertips-_

“Jesus!” she yelled, jumping out of bed; suddenly she was no longer sleepy. 

Her bed - messy, unkempt, not made in weeks - was empty; there was no one resting in it - but the warm sensation of someone’s skin lingered on her fingertips, making them tingle.

“Fuck.” she breathed out, rubbing her temples with her shaking hands. “Not cool, weird thing living inside my head. Not cool.”

_wouldn’t it be nice to wake up next to someone? wouldn’t it be nice to feel someone’s heartbeat under your fingertips and to know his heart is beating for you?_

Charlie groaned, closing her eyes, trying to focus. This wasn’t the first time that weird _thing_ inside of her ( _but i’m you, i’m just you_ ) talked to her; but it was definitely the first time it gave her something physical to react to. Or maybe it was just her imagination, and the last shreds of her Darkling’s sentience had nothing to do with it. Her dreams always were _very_ realistic; the exact number of times she felt very real, physical things in her dreams - stomach ache, hunger, migraine, holding someone’s hand, sitting on an uncomfortable bench, rough sandpaper under her fingertips - eluded her; but it wouldn’t be too outlandish for her - still dizzy - brain to dream up another person in her bed, someone for Charlie to wake up next to, someone for her to l-

“Absolutely not.” Charlie said out loud, shaking her head in exasperation. “We’re _not_ doing _this_ again.”

 _her hand landed on his back, and he smiled with his eyes still closed; his body was warm and firm under her touch and he rolled onto his back and pulled her close_ and Charlie groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

That was Oswald, she just _knew_ it; but she still couldn’t remember his face or his voice. All she remembered was his faceless, voiceless presence; comforting and warm. It made her want to scream in frustration; that faint, fractured memory of love - it was unbearable. It was a torture.

_i’m not ready to fall in love yet. but i am. but i’m not. i don’t want to fall again. but i want to be loved. but i don’t want to lead anyone astray._

_breathe in, breathe out. ignore that voice in your head._

_you can’t ignore me forever. i’m giving you a purpose. i’m giving your life some actual direction. without me you’d have no purpose._

_shut up._

“Shut up.” Charlie muttered to herself; her alarm clock was still screeching on the shelf, and the sharp, piercing noise ringed in her ears and echoed in her head and it felt as if someone was stabbing her brain with a knitting needle. 

“SHUT UP!” she exploded finally; without thinking she grabbed the nearest object and hurled it towards the clock - and only realized what she had done when she heard the sound of shattering glass.

“Fuck.” she muttered, quickly walking up to the shelf; the pesky clock had finally fell silent - and it was silenced by a framed photograph Charlie threw towards it.

It was a photo of her, Harry and her parents; and it was taken moments after her wedding. She looked at it in silence, pursing her lips tightly, doing her best to not cry; she looked so _happy,_ and her parents looked so _happy_ and _proud,_ and Harry…

Harry wasn’t even looking at her in the picture.

It was something she realized with ruthless clarity months ago, when the realization of his true intent and his merciless involvement in the untimely demise of her parents finally sank in. He wasn’t looking at _her_ ; his gaze was focused on the pearl necklace on her neck. The necklace was in her family for generations; it was passed from mother to daughter, and Charlie’s mother - doctor Eleanor - wore it on her wedding day as well. When Eleanor handed her the necklace, Charlie felt so, so _happy_ ; it was not just a priceless, antique trinket - it was a symbol of affection, of devotion, of _love_. But to other people - it was just an expensive piece of jewelry, one that surely would fetch a nice prize wherever thieves take their spoils.

Even though Charlie’s vision was clouded by tears - she could clearly saw Harry’s face. It was, all in all, a nice picture; a blushing, happy bride, her beaming parents - and the slightly disheveled, curly-haired, freckled groom, standing next to them, with his hands in his pockets and a slight smirk painted on his face. His eyes - dark and puzzling - were fixated on the pearls on Charlie’s neck. He was standing a few steps away from them; the sun was setting behind Charlie and her parents, illuminating them - all while all that was behind Harry was a graveyard wall. 

“S-shit.” she choked out, trying to pick the picture up; she cried out in pain when a sharp glass shard cut her finger.

Her blood dripped onto the picture; it splattered on her father’s face and slowly slid down, across her mother’s. Another drop splattered on Harry’s profile; and Charlie broke down into tears. She knelt on the floor of her bedroom, and covered her face with her hands, and wailed; and there was no one to make her feel less alone, no one to take her into their arms. It was just her - her and the bloodied photograph.

***

_“Miss Charlotte…”_

_“Yes, doctor?”_

_“May I ask what does your typical day look like?”_

_“Well, I… I wake up, eat breakfast-”_

_“Please, miss Charlotte. I’d like to hear some details. Let’s start from the beginning. What hour do you typically start your day at?”_

_“To be perfectly honest… Whenever. Sometimes I wake up way past noon.”_

_“And when do you typically go to bed?”_

_“Also whenever. Sometimes I go to sleep in the morning. Sometimes around midnight. Sometimes in the late afternoon.”_

_“And, after you wake up… What do you have for breakfast?”_

_“Whatever. Instant noodles, leftover pizza, leftover chinese, potato chips… I… I don’t cook. I mostly order take-out, or eat snacks. Or… Whatever random stuff I can find. Normal things though, like… Cereal, sans milk. Plain bread. Sliced deli ham rolled around a celery stick. You know. Normal food items… Not prepared.”_

_“I see. And, after your meal… What do you do?”_

_“Uhh… Not much. Mostly I just… Sit around. I spend a lot of time on the internet. I buy things, do some shopping, go on twitter or Instagram… Oh, I play a lot of games. I have a PS4, a Switch, an Xbox… And some retro systems too. Sometimes I watch a movie or five, or binge a tv show. People on twitter like my livetweets. They say they’re cute. I like that.”_

_“And how often do you go outside?”_

_“Uh… I plead the fifth.”_

_“Miss Charlotte…”_

_“I… Don’t go out very much. Once, maybe twice a week… Or less. I don’t have a reason to go out. All the good food places deliver to my address, I can buy groceries online… And I barely know anyone in Gotham. It’s just… Well… To be honest, I only know you. I have no friends to hang out with. No hobbies that require me to go outside. I tried bird-watching, but got bored after five minutes… And there aren’t many birds in Gotham to begin with.”_

_“I think it was very brave for you to admit to all those things. And I think it’s a huge step in the right direction, admitting to all those things.”_

_“Do you? Because to me it just felt… Pathetic.”_

_“How so?”_

_“There’s no purpose to my life. No direction. I just… Exist. And my absence wouldn’t change anything. No one would miss me, because I don’t exist in anyone’s life, except for mine. And I know I wouldn’t miss me.”_

***

On the day - or rather night - of the vernissage she nearly overslept.

Her - seemingly indestructible - alarm clock had finally given up; and she went to bed around eight in the morning and slept like a baby for thirteen hours, unaware of her clock being dead.

For the first time in a long while, her mind wasn’t plagued by the fragmented flashback; but eventually - just as her dreamscape self was about to finally defeat her middle school chemistry teacher Joseph Stalin who was also the CEO of Costco - her brain suddenly decided her real-life throat is dry - and Charlie groaned quietly into the pillow, angrily swallowing her - disgustingly thick - saliva.

“Fine.” she muttered eventually, getting up shakily and with a yawn. “Water.”

She sat with her legs crossed and blinked sleepily; her warm body desperately wanted to get back to sleep, and the bed felt like the most powerful, most irresistible magnet.

But dizzy, warm sleepiness left her body the moment she glanced at her phone.

“Fuck!” she yelped, jumping out of bed. The vernissage was starting in thirty minutes - and even taking her plan to be fashionably late into consideration didn’t make the situation much better, since she was still left with a measly sixty minutes to take a shower, dry and style her hair, do her makeup, pick an outfit and actually _get_ to the gallery. Sure, the gallery - owned by Bruce Wayne and ran by someone else, whose name eluded her - was located a few blocks away from her building; but she still had to doll herself up to be absolutely sure she’ll get Bruce’s attention, and to catch a cab, and-

“Shit.” she sighed, hiding her face in her hands. “Okay. Alright. Cool. Can I skip showering? Eww. No. I stink.” she decided with a wince. “Okay. Cool.”

Somehow - after a lot of stumbling, dropping things, nearly ripping a hole in her dress, staining her favorite lace bra with red lipstick and poking herself in the eye with an eyeliner brush - she made it. Her hands were shaking slightly as she was getting out of the cab; she nearly dropped her handbag into a puddle, and she was _sure_ the cab driver was eyeing her in a weird way that reminded her of the way the man in the Cobblepot Park looked at her - but none of it mattered. She got out of the cab, and smoothed her deep blue, pencil dress down (she made sure to chose the one that not only accentuated her small, round tits, plump butt and defined hips and thighs, but also had a long side slit that offered a peek of her black stockings and the thin strips connecting them to her lace garter belt) - and took a deep breath.

_be cool. surely there’s gonna be someone there who knows maroni. be cool. you’re only here for bruce wayne. be cool. act normal._

“Act normal.” she muttered under her breath, glancing at the wide entrance door of Crowne Art Gallery; there was a man standing in the doorway, tall and muscular and bald. He was wearing a nice, expensive tuxedo; and he was staring at Charlie intently. It was an attentive, cautious look; without a doubt he was analyzing her clothes, her posture, her overall demeanor, trying to predict what might she up to.

She shot him an anxious smile, opening her purse in search of the invitation.

“Good evening.” she said, pulling it out. “I have… This.”

The man merely glanced at the invitation and instantly turned around to open the door for her.

“Have a pleasant night.” he said as she walked past him; he smelled nice, and his voice was pleasantly raspy and low. He wasn’t exactly handsome - but just for a moment, something inside Charlie decided he’s _good looking enough for a one night stand; how hard to get can he be anyway?_

“Jesus.” she muttered to herself, shuddering at the sudden thought. It was not exactly _unpleasant_ , and she _could_ see herself developing an interest in the man; it just definitely felt… Odd. Back in Metropolis, she was never the most outgoing girl in the world, instead sticking to simply hanging out with people she already knew; only a few times she mustered up enough courage to chat a stranger up. Sometimes those rare bursts of confidence resulted in her waking up in someone else’s bed; but more often - they didn’t lead anywhere. And not even _once_ she as much as even _tried_ to chat someone up without her friends acting as her moral support; how was she supposed to do it _alone_? What would she say anyway? And what would she do if he said _no_? It’s not like she could simply laugh it off and go back to her friends; it would just be her and her insecurities, mockingly pointing at her every imperfection ( _i practically have no tits and i’m short like a fucking child and my thighs are too thick and i have no ass and even my face look childish and no one’s gonna fuck an adult woman who looks like a twelve years old_ ), and that thought caused her to gulp quietly, instinctively shrinking a bit, trying to make herself appear invisible.

The man didn’t say anything; and soon she forgot about him completely, too busy being overwhelmed with the indescribable familiarity of her surroundings.

Everything about the room she walked into felt like a deja vu; the gallery looked exactly like her mother’s favorite art gallery in Metropolis, down to the arrangement of furniture (simplistic and minimalist; a few leather-padded and a couple matching tables in the middle of the room) and color of the walls (deep, dark purple). Even people inside - elegant, undoubtedly rich, extravagant and cultured enough to be interested in modern art - seemed eerily familiar, even though she saw them for the very first time. There simply was something impossibly familiar about them - their clothes, postures, demeanors, the way they talked to each other.

It was paralyzing - that impossible familiarity, that cruel deja vu, that pathetic substitute of something she’d never experience again.

( _there’s nothing left for me in metropolis._ )

Paralyzed and speechless, she stood in the doorway; and she’d be standing there for god knows how long - but after a moment someone put an olive-colored hand on her shoulder, immediately bringing her back to Earth.

“Excuse me.” the woman - tall, black haired and wearing a simple, black pencil skirt, white shirt, a black jacket and a pair of flat shoes - said, both politely and slightly impatiently. “Can I get through?”

“Oh!” Charlie said nervously, taking a step to the side and bumping into the doorframe with her shoulder. “Right. Of course. I’m… Sorry.” she muttered quietly; the woman looked at her, raising her left eyebrow.

“Are you alright?” she asked finally; and Charlie looked at her in confusion. “Do you need a glass of water, or CPR performed by a dashing rescuer of your preferred gender?”

“I’m fine!” Charlie said quickly, smiling nervously. “I just… Eugh. I hadn’t been out much since… Since my parents died.” she muttered, looking away. “So I guess I’m just… A bit overwhelmed.”

“My condolences.” the woman said; she looked at Charlie and her gaze was gentle and sympathetic. “So, now that I know about this extremely personal tragedy of yours… My name’s Louise, Louise McDonagh.”

“Charlie.” Charlie replied quickly, shaking Louise’s hand. “Charlie Schiller-Aberdeen. I’m… New around here.”

“Yes, I figured that much.” Louise said, with just a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Not to brag, but I like to think I at least _heard_ about everyone worth knowing in Gotham… And yet here you are, a complete stranger at an invitation-only event hosted by Bruce Wayne. So, either you’re the latest flame of someone who matters, pulled out of the literal gutter for five minutes… Or you’re simply not from here. Or both. Or neither, and I’m witnessing the birth of the newest star on the firmament of Gotham’s social elite.” she finished; and Charlie blinked a few times, her brain drawing a blank. What on Earth was she supposed to say in response to _that_? Was she supposed to laugh? Or to respond in similar way? Or maybe she was simply supposed to say more about her family? Or maybe-

“Sorry.” Louise said, noticing Charlie’s confusion. “I had a remarkably shitty day… And I always wanted to give that speech to _someone_.”

“Do you feel better now?” Charlie asked, feeling weirdly concerned for this chatty stranger. “Because it’s gonna take more than one speech to wear me down. I am very good at pretending to pay attention… At least I think I am. No one ever yelled at me for not listening to them, so… The conclusion draws itself.”

“Or maybe they did yell at you, and you simply didn’t register it.” Louise suggested; and Charlie giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. “Ah! Now that’s nice to hear. I said the same hilarious joke to my boss today, and guess what - he didn’t appreciate it _at all…_ Mostly because we were both _drowning_ in paperwork. Literally. We were waist-deep in papers. Which doesn’t sound like a lot when it comes to water… But it _is_ a whole lot when it comes to paperwork.”

“I can imagine.” Charlie said, clutching her handbag awkwardly. “So… Are you friends with B… With mister Wayne?”

“Well, he _is_ friends with my superior. _Good_ friends. And I’m pretty sure he knows I exist. We talked a few times. Why, are you trying to… _Get to know him_?” Louise whispered theatrically; and Charlie smiled nervously.

“Who _doesn’t_?” she asked in response, glancing towards the other end of the room, where Bruce Wayne - tall, handsome, almost weirdly muscular - was standing, talking to the true star of the evening: Daedalus Boch. Both men were laughing; but even from where she was standing Charlie could see Boch is tired.

It was a kind of tiredness she was well familiar with; the one that came not from the lack of sleep - but from the abundance of it. It was a weird kind of tired, one that made every waking moment feel like a prelude to yet another nap, one that made the body search for a comfortable couch or bed to sink into; but not to recharge - to function at all. Just as laptops and smartphones shouldn’t be plugged in for charging all the time, humans should be spending most of their time sleeping; but some of them did, their bodies tired from the anguish of their minds - and it shown.

“I could introduce you.” Louise suggested, picking up a glass of wine from the nearest table. “He’s more approachable than people think. After all, he’s still just a slightly dumb guy in an expensive suit. Yes, he _does_ have an army of lawyers… But I don’t think he ever sent them _after_ someone.”

Charlie opened her mouth, ready to refuse; but the problem was - she didn’t came to the vernissage with an actual _plan_. 

Also - she was getting really hungry due to skipping eating anything before hurrying out, and mister Wayne was standing right next to a buffet table. Even from across the room Charlie could see platters upon platters of canapes, mini quiches, bruschetta and mini fruit tarts; and her mouth _watered_ and her stomach _gurgled_ as she immediately began planning what is she going to eat first.

“That’d be nice.” she said quickly, swallowing her hunger, desperately hoping Louise didn’t hear the sound her stomach just made. “So… Who do you work for?”

For a brief moment - there was a faint glimmer of amusement in Louise’s gray eyes.

“Oh, no one too important.” she replied, walking past Charlie. “Just Gotham’s district attorney. I’m the ADA.” she added, shooting Charlie an amused look. “Not gonna lie though, it’s nice to finally meet someone who doesn’t immediately try to weasel their way out of some trouble at one of those _delightful_ soirées. Good evening, mister Wayne.” she added, walking up to him.

“Well, _now_ it’s a good evening.” Bruce Wayne said, turning around to look at Louise. “I take it Harvey couldn’t make it?”

“You know how he is.” Louise said with a shrug. “He offered his invitation to me… And you know me, mister Wayne. I can _never_ say _no_ to canapes and wine.”

He let out a quiet chuckle.

“Well, I’m very pleased to hear tonight’s menu is to your liking.” he said, turning his head to look at Daedalus. “But tonight is not just about canapes and wine and social pleasantries. It’s about appreciating one of America’s finest artists.”

“Oh, I _do_ appreciate the art.” Louise assured him, nodding towards Boch. “I got my girlfriend a calendar with your works. I was going for a print, but… They were all sold out. Everywhere.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Boch said with a faint smile; he had a pleasant, silky voice. “Wait. No, that’s not right. The fact you didn’t get your partner what you wanted to give her is _not_ nice.”

“Right? That’s partially why Harv… _Mister Dent_ offered me his invitation. My plus one is on her way, by the way.” she added, looking at Bruce - who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“And here I thought I’ve figured out who did you come with.” he said, finally turning his attention to Charlie, who shot him a nervous smile. From up close, he looked good; pleasantly tall. Dressed up in perfectly fitted - undoubtedly custom-made - suit. A bit too muscular for her liking. His cologne smelt a bit bland; but it was a pleasant kind of bland, reminiscent of pinewood, smoke, winter morning and all the other overused scents used in colognes for rich men. His facial features were almost too perfect; symmetrical and proportional, with nice, strong jawline and noble forehead. If it wasn’t for him being an actual person and for the pleasant spark in his eyes, he’d look like a Ken doll; all in all, he was not her type - but it’s not like she was planning on _seducing_ him. She just wanted to get his attention, and just a bit of trust; nothing more - and nothing less. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“That’s because we didn’t.” Charlie said quickly, forcing her hands to stop kneading her handbag. “Charlie Schiller-Aberdeen. Pleased to m… To meet your acquaintance.” she said; and immediately afterwards - groaned quietly out of embarrassment. “God. I’m sorry, my tongue lost the connection with my brain for a moment.”

Bruce Wayne let out a quick chuckle.

“Oh, I’m sure my acquaintance is also pleased to meet you.” he said with a pleasant, reassuring smile; and Charlie smiled back nervously. “Right, Daedalus?”

“Most pleased.” Boch assured her with a nod. “Somehow we never had the chance to meet… I do know your parents though. Fantastic people. Are they also in Gotham?” he asked; and Charlie’s smile faded slowly as she realized the news of their passing ( _“passing”, ha! it sounds so peaceful; there was nothing peaceful about a bloody car crash that tore my father’s flesh apart and poison in my mother’s tea that made her choke with her own vomit._ ) had not reached him. In all honesty, she wasn’t exactly _surprised_ ; Daedalus - a maestro of visual arts, a doting father of two, a loving husband and an occasional and sought after guest of honor of various occasions - most likely didn’t have a lot of time to keep track of how’s life treating all of his sponsors and patrons and fans. Her parents loved his works, and for the twentieth anniversary of their wedding he gifted them a magnificent, original painting; but since he wasn’t exactly a _family friend -_ Charlie never thought about notifying him.

“My parents are dead, mister Boch.” she said flatly; after spending countless days in pure anguish - saying it out loud didn’t hurt so much anymore. “It’s… A very unfortunate story, and one I’d rather not dwell on during such a lovely evening.”

“My condolences.” Boch said awkwardly; and Charlie nodded silently.

( _“my condolences”, everyone said; and they meant it, from the bottom of their heart. but their condolences were so faceless and void; they brought her no comfort, only pain. “my condolences”. “sorry for your loss”. “your father was a good man”. “it’s a shame he died like this - ripped in two in a car crash”._ )

“Thank you.” she said lightly. “It means a lot.”

( _it doesn’t._ )

Louise’s phone rang; it was her plus one, letting her know she’s outside the building and needs help getting in.

“Pardon me.” she said, turning around. “I need to rescue that poor guy outside from Vicki’s temper. Mister Boch, if you could please go with me for a moment…”

Before walking away, Louise winked at Charlie; and just like that - Charlie was left (more or less) alone with Bruce Wayne, who smiled at her.

“So, miss Charlie.” he said, just as she started to wonder what now. “Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the _your parents were great and will be missed_ spiel. I… Unfortunately, I know it gets very painful rather quick.”

“Thank you.” she said; and she meant it. If anyone in Gotham knew what does it feel to suddenly lose their family to greed, and to blame themselves for the unjust man’s cruelty - it would be Bruce Wayne. “Can I ask you a strange question, mister Wayne?”

“Try me. Although I have to warn you - nothing phases me anymore. I think I’ve heard _every_ strange question people can come up with.” he said with a sigh. “So… I’m all ears.”

“Do you know any scrawny teenage boy with dark hair who likes running around and dropping event invitations onto people’s doorsteps?” she asked quickly; he raised his eyebrows in silent confusion.

“You’re right.” he said finally. “That _is_ a strange question. Well, at least it would explain why I don’t remember neither me nor Daedalus putting your name onto the guest list.” he sighed; and Charlie’s heart sunk. “Don’t worry though, I’m not going to call the security. And, to answer your original question… No, I don’t know anyone like that.”

“Huh.” she said. “That’s… Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what to say.” she sighed. “My social skills had _really_ plummeted down w… When my parents died. Well, to be exact - they plummeted down when my _dad_ died. By the time it happened to _mom_ … I was already a mess.”

_shut up, you fucking weirdo. you’re creeping him out._

“That’s understandable.” he said with a reassuring smile. “Can I ask you a question in return?”

“Of course.”

“What brings you to Gotham?” he asked, watching her attentively. “Don’t get me wrong, I most definitely _am_ pleased with the fact there’s a new face in town… But most people wouldn’t pick Gotham as their new home, or even a temporary respite.”

He briefly moved his eyes away from her face when he said that; he looked at her neck, her figure, her hands. And, more importantly, he seemed to like what he’s seeing; which was good. It meant she actually _does_ have a chance to get closer to him in order to ask about the whereabouts of his childhood best friend.

(To be honest, she also liked the way she looked that night; after a few days of wearing the same old pair of sweats, a stained tee and not showering she _did_ feel like a million dollars.)

“I’m a lot more than just a _face_ , mister Wayne.” she said, smiling lightly; he laughed again.

“Please, call me Bruce.”

“Bruce.” she repeated. “And, to answer your question… I have my reasons. Don’t worry though, I’m not planning on becoming a crime lord, or weaseling my way into the Wayne Enterprises board committee.”

“Well, one could argue those two things are one and the same.” he sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But, just in case… I’ll give you my number. Give me a call if I can help you with… Whatever it is that you’re trying to accomplish. Who knows? I might just be the able to help.” he said, pulling out a pen; he wrote his number down on a paper napkin and handed it to her, lightly - and seemingly accidentally - brushing her hand with his fingertips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Thank you.” she said as he walked past her. “I’ll… Let you know if I need help.”

_who am i kidding? of course i’m going to call him. that was my plan all along. god, i hope he’s not a creep._

After safely stashing the napkin in her wallet - she decided it’s time for her to go home. There simply wasn’t anything left for her to do; she didn’t know anyone - and Boch’s art _really_ reminded her of her parents, in a rather unpleasant, cutting way.

( _She wakes up in the morning and reaches out with her hand; and Harry’s not there. She sees Boch’s art and turns her head; and her parents aren’t there._ )

On her way out - she bumped into Louise, who was smoking outside, next to the _no smoking_ sign.

“Heading out already?” she asked, seeing Charlie. “Did you at least get what you came for?”

“Ye… Hey. How do you know I came here for Wayne?”

“Oh, please.” Louise sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “You’re new in town. Bright eyed, pretty, pretty _rich_ … _Of course_ you came here for Wayne. He’s among the most popular men in Gotham… Though god knows _Gotham’s most popular_ are not a club you _want_ to be a part of.”

“Well, I just… Wanted to meet him.” Charlie said awkwardly. “You know. I’m a new girl in town, Wayne’s the _face_ of Gotham… I figured getting to know him might be like a crash course in what it’s like to live here.”

Louise laughed.

“In that case, you might also want to get friendly with Falcone. Actually, no, scratch that, _don’t_ get friendly with Falcone. Any of them. Our file on that whole blasted family is already thicker than the Bible. No need to add more pages to it.”

“I’ll… Remember that. Wait, where’s your plus one?” she asked, looking around. “And Boch?”

“Boch went back inside some time ago. As for Vicki… She’s just around the corner. She’s a workaholic, so naturally… She’s working as we speak.” she sighed, rolling her eyes; but the corners of her lips curled up in a smile, and there was hardly any actual annoyance in her eyeroll, just playful irritation. “We’re going home in a couple minutes. Wanna split a cab?”

“Sure.” Charlie replied, just as Louise’s plus one finally joined them.

Somehow - Vicki seemed _familiar_. Something about her cheerful face, neatly tied hair and intelligent eyes made Charlie feel like they’ve already met; which wasn’t impossible - but at the same time no sudden flashback came to her, no fragmented memory. Just the eerie feeling of _somehow_ already being acquainted with her; and something in Vicki’s expression - the faintest spark of surprise in her eyes, the hesitant twitch of her lips, the disbelieving squint - told her she was right.

“Oh. Hello!” Vicki said with a nervous smile. “That’s… Unexpected.”

“Is it?” Charlie replied, desperately trying to figure out who was she looking at. Her memory was drawing a blank; and she didn’t even get one measly, fragmented flashback that could indicate who the woman in front of her was. All she had was a burning, Vicki-shaped hole in her memory - and it was _maddening_. “I’m sorry, but… Have we met?” she asked, deciding to maybe not over-complicate her - already rather messy - life.

“Met? No, no!” Vicki exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously. “I simply… Saw you in the news.” she said quickly; and Charlie nodded silently. Unfortunately, it made sense; her father’s sudden death _did_ make it onto national TV. Allegedly, so did her mother’s; but by then - she had stopped watching TV completely, feeling like both the constantly reported worldwide tragedies and artificial, neon happiness shoved into her throat by reality show actors and soap opera screenwriters felt like rubbing salt into her - open, fresh, bleeding - wounds. She could remember there were reporters at her mother’s funeral; but neither her nor Harry talked to them. “I’m… Very sorry for your loss.”

_god, not again._

“Thank you.” Charlie replied automatically, the words rolling off her tongue smoothly, like a well rehearsed lie. “But let’s not talk about _me_. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Ouch.” Vicki replied with a playful smirk. “Lou, how _could you_?” she asked, sounding theatrically hurt; she turned her head to look at Louise, who rolled her eyes again, visibly hiding a smirk. “Are you _ashamed_ of me?”

“We’re _not_ having this conversation _again_ , Vi.” she said with a sigh. “Anyway. Vi, this is Charlie Schiller-Aberdeen. Charlie - can I call you that? Something tells me I should’ve asked sooner - this is my girlfriend, and this year’s _certain_ Pulitzer nominee… Vicki Vale.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Charlie said, shaking Vicki’s hand; she vaguely remembered reading about Vicki Vale - or maybe something written _by_ her? Honestly, she wasn’t sure - online. That’d explain why she seemed familiar; probably there was a photo somewhere in the article.

“Likewise.” Vicki replied, letting go of Charlie’s hand. “Though I’m gonna be honest - I’d be a _lot_ more pleased if I was writing for the gossip column.”

“I can’t say that’d be an ideal scenario.” Charlie said with a nervous smile. “I’d… Rather avoid tabloids and gossip columns. I’ve had to deal with them enough times to last me three lifetimes.”

“Duly noted.” Vicki said with a playful wink. “But, either way… It was nice to meet you. I have to run.” she added, turning her head to look at Louise again. “Duty calls. One of my contacts has a scoop for me.”

Louise sighed.

“We both know I can’t stop you anyway.” she said finally. “Talk to you tomorrow? Oh, and text me once you get home.”

“Even if it’s three in the morning?”

“Even if it’s three in the morning.” Louise said sternly. “Be safe, Vi. I’m not gonna tell you to be _good_ though, mostly because… I know you’d rather _die_ than _be good_.”

“You got me here, miss Always Proper.” Vicki said, playfully nudging Louise with her elbow. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

In response, Louise only sighed.

They parted with a quick kiss; a tender peck at each other’s lips, gentle and fast and Charlie stared at them in silence, consumed by something that suddenly exploded within her - a burning need to have _someone_ to shield her from loneliness, to take her into their arms, to kiss her gently. The two women were very obviously in love; and Charlie envied them. _I want to be loved_ , she wanted to exclaim. _I want for someone to kiss me goodbye and to tell me to be safe and to text them, even if it’s three in the morning! I want to be loved and I want to be kissed!_

“So, that’s an intense stare.” Louise said after Vicki left - on foot, in a hurry, the clicking of her heels against the pavement growing more and more quiet as she vanished into the distance. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those _uh, I have nothing against gay people, as long as they’re not OBNOXIOUS about it in public_ people. I was _just_ starting to like you.”

“What?” Charlie asked, blinking a few times. “Oh, heavens, no, of course not! I’m just… Kinda jealous.” she said, awkwardly fiddling with her clutch. “To be honest, I don’t know what to tell you.” she sighed finally. “My last relationship kinda went down in flames. I feel lonely… And you two seem like a really good couple. You know. It was kinda like walking past McDonald’s filled with people munching on chicken nuggets and french fries while you’re starving, and have no time to actually _eat_ something. So you kinda just stop for a moment… And think _damn - I wish I had what those other people have._ ”

In response - Louise raised her eyebrows.

“Damn.” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never thought I’d hear _you and Vicki are kinda like McDonald’s_ from _anyone_. No, no, don’t say a word.” she added as Charlie opened her mouth. “I know what you meant… Not gonna lie though, the urge to blurt out a sassy quip about sapphic couples causing severe burns, heart attacks, strokes and or depression is _strong_.”

Charlie laughed, feeling waves of relief washing over her. For a moment she thought she managed to scare the other woman away accidentally; and frankly - she’d understand it. Charlie’s parents raised her to be accepting, and she was bi herself - but she was sure she’d draw the line if she caught a _stranger_ stare at her and her partner without a word, but with a weird, intense expression painted on their face. But - it seemed like she didn’t scare Louise away, even if she weirded her out a bit.

_my god, you’re pathetic. pathetic and creepy._

In the end, they exchanged phone numbers; Louise asked her if she’d be interested in having a brunch with her later that week - and Charlie agreed without hesitation. _Of course_ she’d love that; it meant a semblance of normalcy. It meant a sense of belonging. It meant existing in someone else’s life - and not just her own.

She entered her apartment with a smile on her face; but as soon as she turned the lights on, and saw the mess of her day-to-day living - her smile faded.

The dirty dishes, the empty takeout containers and pizza boxes, snack wrappers and soda bottles; dirty clothes and blankets and scattered pillows; and ever-present dust. The air inside her apartment was hot and stiff and suffocating; and suddenly - her nice clothes and makeup felt fake, like an unwanted costume, like a constricting disguise.

 _This is who you are_ , a voice at the back of her head said as tears began to gather in her eyes. _Look at it. This is your life. Pathetic and ugly. Stop pretending. You’re ugly and pathetic and stupid and no one gives a FUCK about what you do behind the scenes. You could literally eat shit and no one would care._

She fell asleep to the sound of her own thoughts and to the pounding, burning melody a simple kiss Vicki and Louise exchanged aroused in her. It was a greedy melody, a jealous one, a pathetic one; _I want to be loved! I want to be kissed!_

_You don’t deserve to be loved._

_I want to be loved._

_You are pathetic._


End file.
